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Marshal  Sollt. 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK 

OF  MR.  M.  A.  TITMARSH 

AND 

EASTERN  SKETCHES 
A JOURNEY  FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO 
THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK 

CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

BY 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


NEW  YORK 

A.  L.  BURT,  PUBLISHER 


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CONTENTS. 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 

Page 

An  Invasion  of  France . 5 

A Caution  to  Travellers 16 

The  Fetes  of  July 32 

On  the  French  School  of  Painting 40 

The  Painter’s  Bargain 58 

Cartouche 71 

On  some  French  Fashionable  Novels 82 

A Gambler’s  Death 102 

Napoleon  and  his  System ...C...111 

The  Story  of  Mary  Ancel 124 

Beatrice  Merger . . 142 

Caricatures  and  Lithography  in  Paris 149 

Little  Poinsinet 175 

The  Devil’s  Wager 188 

Madame  Sand  and  the  new  Apocalypse ,...198 

The  Case  of  Peytel  221 

Four  Imitations  of  Beranger  . 248 

French  Dramas  and  Melodramas 258 

Meditations  at  Versailles 276 


CONTENTS. 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


A JOURNEY  FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 

Chapter  Page 

Dedication 293 

Preface 295 

I.  Vigo. — Thoughts  at  Sea — Sight  of  Land — Vigo  — 

Spanish  Ground  — Spanish  Troops  — Pasagero  . . . 297 


II.  Lisbon  — Cadiz.  — Lisbon  — The  P)elein  Road — A 
School  — Landscape  — Palace  of  Necessidades  — 

Cadiz  — The  Rock 303 

III.  The  “Lady  Mary  Wood.”  — British  Lions  — Travel- 

ling Friends — Bishop  No.  2 — “Good-by,  Bishop”  — 

The  Meek  Lieutenant  — “ Lady  Mary  Wood  ” . . . 311 

IV.  Gibraltar.  — Mess-Room  Gossip  — Military  Horticul- 

ture — “ All’s  Well  ” — A Release  — Gibraltar  — 
klalta — Religion  and  Nobility  — Malta  Belies  — The 
Lazaretto  — Death  in  the  Lazaretto 317 

V.  Athens.  — Reminiscences  of  tvtttco  — The  Peirseus  — 
Landscape  — Basileus  — England  for  Ever!  — Classic 
Remains  — ruTrreo  again 328 


VI.  Smyrna  — First  Glimpses  of  the  East.  — First  Emo- 
tions — The  Bazaar  — A Bastinado  — IVomen  — The 
Caravan  Bridge — Smyrna  — The  Whistler  ....  336 

VII.  CoNSTAN'i  ixoPLE.  — Catques  — Eothen’s  “ Misseri  ” — 

A TurhLli  Bath  — Constantinople  — His  Highness  the 
Sultan  — Ich  mochte  nicht  der  Sultan  seyn  — A Sub- 
ject for  a Ghazul  — The  Child-Murderer  — Turkish 
Children  — IModesty  — The  Seraglio  — The  Sultanas’ 

Puffs  — The  Sublime  Porte  — The  Schoolmaster  in 


Constantinople 344 

VIII.  Rhodes. — Jew  Pilgrims  — Jew  Bargaining  — Relics  of 
Chivalry  — IMahometanism  Bankrupt  — A Drago- 
man — A Fine  Day  — Rhodes 863 


Chapter 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

370 


IX.  The  White  Squall 

X.  Telmessus  — Beyrout.  — Telmessus  — Halil  Pasha  — 
Beyrout — A Portrait  — A Ball  on  Board  — A Syrian 
Prince 373 

XI.  A Day  and  Night  ix  Syria.  — Landing  at  Jaffa  — 

Jaffa — The  Cadi  of  Jaffa  — The  Cadi’s  Divan  — A 
Night-Scene  at  Jaffa — Syrian  Night’s  Entertainments 

XII.  From  Jaffa  to  Jerusalem.  — A Cavalcade  — March- 
ing Order  — A Tournament  — Ramleh  — Roadside 
Sketches  — Rencontres  — Abou  Gosh  — Night  before 
Jerusalem 

XIII.  Jerusalem.  — A Pillar  of  the  Church — Quarters  — 

Jewish  Pilgrims — Jerusalem  Jews  — English  Service 
— Jewish  History  — The  Church  of  the  Sepulchre  — 

The  Porch  of  the  Sepulchre  — Greek  and  Latin 
Legends  — The  Church  of  the  Sepulchre  — Bethlehem 
— The  Latin  Convent  — The  American  Consul  — 
Subjects  for  Sketching  — Departure  — A Day’s  March 
— Ramleh 3o6 

XIV.  From  Jaffa  to  Alexandria. — Bill  of  Fare  — From 

Jaffa  to  Alexandria 

XV.  To  Cairo.  — The  Nile  — First  Sight  of  Cheops  — The 
Ezbekieh  — The  Hotel  d’Orieut  — The  Conqueror 
Waghorn  — Architecture  — The  Chief  of  the  Hag  — 

A Street-Scene  — - Arnaoots  — A Gracious  Prince  — 

The  Screw-Propeller  in  Egypt  — The  “ Rint  ” in 
Egypt  — The  Maligned  Orient  — “ The  Sex  ” — Sub- 
jects for  Painters  — Slaves  — A Hyde  Park  Moslem  — 
Glimpses  of  the  Harem  — An  Eastern  Acquaintance  — 

An  Egyptian  Dinner  — Life  in  the  Desert  — From  the 
Top  of  the  Pyramid  — Groups  for  Landscape  — Pig- 
mies and  Pyramids  — Things  to  think  of  — Finis  . , 41S 


380 


387 


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THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK, 


DEDICATORY  LETTER 

TO 

M.  ARETZ,  TAILOR,  Etc. 

27,  RUE  RICHELIEU,  PARIS. 


Sir,  — It  becomes  every  man  in  his  station  to  acknowledge 
and  praise  virtue  wheresoever  he  may  find  it,  and  to  point  it 
out  for  the  admiration  and  example  of  his  fellow-men. 

Some  months  since,  when  you  pre&.^nted  to  the  writer  of 
these  pages  a small  account  for  coats  and  pantaloons  manu- 
factured by  you,  and  when  you  were  met  by  a statement  from 
3’our  creditor,  that  an  immediate  settlement  of  your  bill  would 
be  extremely  inconvenient  to  him;  your  reply  was,  “Mon 
Dieu.  Sir,  let  not  that  annoy  you  ; if  }’ou  want  money,  as  a 
gentleman  often  does  in  a strange  country,  I have  a thousand- 
franc  note  at  m}^  house  which  is  quite  at  3^our  service.” 

History'  or  experience.  Sir,  makes  us  acquainted  with  so 
few  actions  that  can  be  compared  to  yours,  — an  offer  like  this 
from  a stranger  and  a tailor  seems  to  me  so  astonishing,  — 
that  you  must  pardon  me  for  thus  making  3^0111'  virtue  public, 
and  acquainting  the  English  nation  with  3^our  merit  and  3"our 
name.  Let  me  add,  Sir,  that  von  live  on  the  first  floor;  that 
your  clothes  and  fit  are  excellent,  and  3"our  charges  moderate 
and  just ; and,  as  a humble  tribute  of  my  admiration,  permit 
me  to  lay  these  volumes  at  3^our  feet. 

Your  obliged,  faithful  servant, 

M.  A.  TITMARSH. 


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•>,74 


AN  INVASION  OF  FRANCE. 


“ Caesar  venit  in  Galliam  summa  diligentii.” 

About  twelve  o’clock,  just  ns  the  bell  of  the  packet  is  tolling 
a farewell  to  London  Ihidgc,  and  warning  olf  the  blackguard- 
boys  with  the  newspapers,  who  have  been  shoving  Times ^ Herald^ 
Penny  Paul-Pry^  Penny  Satirist^  Flare-ii'p^  and  other  abomina- 
tions, into  your  face — just  as  the  bell  has  tolled,  and  the  Jews, 
strangers,  people-taking-leave-of-their-fainilies,  and  blackguard- 
boys  aforesaid,  are  making  a rush  for  the  narrow  plank  which 
conducts  from  the  paddle-box  of  the  ‘ ‘ Emerald  ” steamboat 
unto  the  qua}'  — you  perceive,  staggering  down  Thames  Street, 
those  two  hackne}'-coaches,  for  the  arrival  of  which  you  have 
been  praying,  trembling,  hoping,  despairing,  swearing  — sw — , 
I beg  your  pardon,  1 believe  the  word  is  not  used  in  polite  com- 
pany — and  transpiring,  for  the  last  half-hour.  Yes,  at  last, 
the  two  coaches  draw  near,  and  from  thence  an  awful  number 
of  trunks,  children,  carpet-bags,  nursery-maids,  hat-boxes,  band- 
boxes,  bonnet-boxes,  desks,  cloaks,  and  an  affectionate  wife,  are 
discharged  on  the  qua}’. 

“ Elizabeth,  take  care  of  Miss  Jane,”  screams  that  worthy 
woman,  who  has  l)een  for  a fortnight  employed  in  getting  this 
tremendous  body  of  troops  and  baggage  into  marching  order. 
“ Hicks  ! Hicks  ! for  heaven’s  sake  mind  the  babies  ! ” — 
“George  — Edward,  sir,  if  you  go  near  that  porter  with  the 
trunk,  he  will  tumble  down  and  kill  you,  you  naughty  boy!  — 
My  love,  do  take  the  cloaks  and  umbrellas,  and  give  a hand  to 
Fanny  and  Lucy  ; and  I wish  you  would  speak  to  the  hackney- 
coachmen,  dear,  they  want  fifteen  shillings,  and  count  the  pack- 
ages, love  — twenty-seven  packages,  — and  bring  little  Flo  ; 
where’s  little  Flo  ? — Flo  1 Flo  1 ” — (Flo  comes  sneaking  in  ; 


6 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


she  has  been  speaking  a few  parting  words  to  a one-eyed  terrier, 
that  sneaks  off  similarly,  landward.) 

As  when  the  hawk  menaces  the  hen-roost,  in  like  manner, 
when  such  a danger  as  a voyage  menaces  a mother,  she  becomes 
suddenh'  endowed  with  a ferocious  presence  of  mind,  and  brist- 
ling up  and  screaming  in  the  front  of  her  brood,  and  in  the  face 
of  circumstances,  succeeds,  b}"  her  courage,  in  putting  her 
enem}'  to  flight ; in  like  manner  3'ou  will  always,  I think.  And 
your  wife  (if  that  lady  be  good  for  twopence)  shrill,  eager,  and 
ill-humored,  before,  and  during  a great  famil}-  move  of  this 
nature.  Well,  the  swindling  hackne^'-coachmen  are  paid,  the 
mother  leading  on  her  regiment  of  little  ones,  and  supported  b}^ 
her  auxiliary  nurse-maids,  are  safe  in  the  cabin;  — }’ou  have 
counted  twent}’-six  of  the  twent3^-seven  parcels,  and  have  them 
on  board,  and  that  horrid  man  on  the  paddle-box,  who,  for 
twent3"  minutes  past,  has  been  roaring  out,  NOW,  SIR  ! — sa3’s, 
now^  sir^  no  more. 

I never  3’et  knew  how  a steamer  began  to  move,  being 
always  too  bus3"  among  the  trunks  and  children,  for  the  first 
half-hour,  to  mark  any  of  the  movements  of  the  vessel.  When 
these  private  arrangements  are  made,  you  And  3^ourself  opposite 
Greenwich  (farewell,  sweet,  sweet  whitebait !),  and  quiet  begins 
to  enter  3’our  soul.  Your  wife  smiles  for  the  first  time  these  ten 
da3’s  ; 3*011  pass  by  plantations  of  ship-masts,  and  forests  of 
steam-chimneys  ; the  sailors  are  singing  on  board  the  ships,  the 
bargees  salute  3*011  with  oaths,  grins,  and  phrases  facetious  and 
familiar;  the  man  on  the  paddle-box  roars,  “Ease  her,  stop 
her  ! ” which  m3*sterious  "words  a shrill  voice  from  below  repeats, 
and  pipes  out,  “Ease  her,  stop  her ! ” in  echo;  the  deck  is 
crowded  with  groups  of  figures,  and  the  sun  shines  over  all. 

The  sun  shines  over  all,  and  the  steward  comes  up  to  say, 
“Lunch,  ladies  and  gentlemen!  Will  an3^ad3*  or  gentleman 
please  to  take  an3*think?  ” About  a dozen  do  : boiled  beef  and 
pickles,  and  great  red  raw  Cheshire  cheese,  tempt  the  epicure  : 
little  dump3*  bottles  of  stout  are  produced,  and  fizz  and  bang 
about  with  a spirit  one  would  never  have  looked  for  in  individu- 
als of  their  size  and  stature. 

The  decks  have  a strange  look  ; the  people  on  them,  that  is. 
Wives,  elderly  stout  husbands,  nurse-maids,  and  children  pre- 
dominate, of  course,  in  English  steamboats.  Such  ma3*  be  con- 
sidered as  the  distinctive  marks  of  the  English  gentleman  at 
three  or  four  and  fort3* : two  or  three  of  such  groups  have 
pitched  their  camps  on  the  deck.  Then  there  are  a number  of 
3*oung  men,  of  whom  three  or  four  have  allowed  their  mous- 


AN  INVASION  OF  FRANCE. 


7 


taches  to  begin  to  grow  since  last  F riday ; for  they  are  going 
‘‘  on  the  Continent,”  and  the}'  look,  therefore,  as  if  their  upper 
lips  were  smeared  with  smilf. 

A danseuse  from  the  opera  is  on  her  wa}'  to  Paris.  Followed 
by  her  bonne  and  her  little  dog,  she  paces  the  deck,  stepping- 
out,  in  the  real  dancer  fashion,  and  ogling  all  around.  How 
happy  the  two  young  Englishmen  are,  who  can  speak  Fi'ench, 
and  make  up  to  her : and  how  all  criticise  her  points  and  [)aces  ! 
V'onder  is  a group  of  3'oung  ladies,  who  are  going  to  Paris  to 
learn  how  to  be  governesses  : those  two  splendidl}-  dressed  ladies 
are  milliners  from  the  Rue  Richelieu,  who  have  just  brought 
over,  and  disposed  of,  their  cargo  of  Summer  fashions.  Here 
sits  the  Rev.  Mr.  Snodgrass  with  his  pupils,  whom  he  is  con- 
ducting to  his  establishment,  near  Boulogne,  where,  in  addition 
to  a classical  and  mathematical  education  (washing  included), 
the}'oung  gentlemen  have  the  benefit  of  learning  French  among 
the  French  themselves.  According!}  , the  young  gentlemen  are 
locked  up  in  a great  rickety  house,  two  miles  from  Boulogne 
and  never  see  a soul,  except  the  French  usher  and  the  cook. 

Some  few  FAench  people  are  there  already,  preparing  to  be 
ill  — (I  never  shall  forget  a dreadful  sight  I once  had  in  the 
little  dark,  dirty,  six-foot  cabin  of  a DoA^er  steamer.  Four 
gaunt  Frenchmen,  but  for  their  pantaloons,  in  the  costume  of 
Adam  in  Paradise,  solemnly  anointing  themselves  with  some 
charm  against  sea-sickness  !)  — a few  Frenchmen  are  there,  but 
these,  for  the  most  part,  and  with  a proper  philosophy,  go  to  the 
fore-cabin  of  the  ship,  and  you  see  them  on  the  fore-deck  (is  that 
the  name  for  that  part  of  the  vessel  which  is  in  the  region  of  the 
bowsprit?)  lowering  in  huge  cloaks  and  caps  ; snuffy,  Avretched, 
pale,  and  wet ; and  not  jabbering  now,  as  their  wont  is  on  shore. 
I never  could  fancy  the  Mounseers  formidable  at  sea. 

There  are,  of  course,  many  Jews  on  board.  Who  ever 
travelled  by  steamboat,  coach,  diligence,  eilwagen,  vetturino, 
mule-back,  or  sledge,  without  meeting  some  of  the  wandering 
race  ? 

By  the  time  these  remarks  have  been  made  the  steward  is  on 
the  deck  again,  and  dinner  is  ready  : and  about  two  hours  after 
dinner  comes  tea  ; and  then  there  is  brandy-and-water,  which  he 
eagerly  presses  as  a preventive  against  what  may  happen  ; and 
about  this  time  you  pass  the  Foreland,  the  wind  blowing  pretty 
fresh  ; and  the  groups  on  deck  disappear,  and  your  wife,  giv- 
ing you  an  alarmed  look,  descends,  with  her  little  ones,  to  the 
ladies’  cabin,  and  you  see  the  steward  and  his  boys  issuing  from 
their  den  under  the  paddle-box,  with  each  a heap  of  round  tin 


8 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


vases,  like  those  which  are  called,  I believe,  in  America,  expec- 
toratoons^  only  these  are  larger. 

The  wind  blows,  the  water  looks  greener  and  more  beautiful 
than  ever  — ridge  by  ridge  of  long  white  rock  passes  away. 
“That’s  Ramsgit,”  says  the  man  at  the  helm  ; and,  presentl}% 
“ That  there’s  Deal  — it’s  dreadful  fallen  off  since  the  war;  ” 
and  “That’s  Dover,  round  that  there  pint,  only  3’ou  can't  see 
it.”  And,  in  the  meantime,  the  sun  has  plumped  his  hot  face 
into  the  water,  and  the  moon  has  shown  hers  as  soon  as  ever  his 
back  is  turned,  and  Mrs.  — (the  wife  in  general,)  has  brought 
up  her  children  and  self  from  the  horrid  cabin,  in  which  she 
saj’s  it  is  impossible  to  breathe ; and  the  poor  little  wretches 
are,  b^'  the  officious  stewardess  and  smart  steward  (expecto- 
ratoonifer),  accommodated  with  a heap  of  blankets,  pillows,  and 
mattresses,  in  the  midst  of  which  they  crawl,  as  best  the}'  may, 
and  from  the  heaving  heap  of  which  are,  during  the  rest  of  the 
voyage,  heard  occasional  faint  cries,  and  sounds  of  puking 
woe ! 

Dear,  dear  Maria!  Is  this  the  woman  .who,  anon,  braved 
the  jeers  and  brutal  wrath  of  swindling  hackney-coachmen  ; 
who  repelled  the  insolence  of  haggling  porters,  with  a scorn  that 
brought  down  their  demands  at  least  eighteenpence  ? Is  this 
the  woman  at  whose  voice  servants  tremble  ; at  the  sound  of 
whose  steps  the  nursery,  ay,  and  mayhap  the  parlor,  is  in  order? 
Look  at  her  now,  prostrate,  prostrate  — no  strength  has  she  to 
speak,  scarce  power  to  push  to  her  youngest  one  — her  suffering, 
struggling  Rosa,  — to  push  to  her  the  — the  instrumentoon  ! 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  throes  and  agonies,  at  which  all  the 
passengers,  who  have  their  own  woes  (you  yourself — for  how 
can  you  help  them?  — you  are  on  your  back  on  a bench,  and  if 
you  move  all  is  up  with  you,)  are  looking  on  indifferent  — one 
man  there  is  who  has  been  watching  }'ou  with  the  utmost  care, 
and  bestowing  on  your  helpless  family  the  tenderness  that  a 
father  denies  them.  He  is  a foreigner,  and  you  have  been  con- 
versing with  him,  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  in  French  — 
which,  he  says,  you  speak  remarkably  well,  like  a native  in 
fact,  and  then  in ‘English  (which,  after  all,  you  find  is  more 
convenient).  What  can  express  your  gratitude  to  this  gentle- 
man for  all  his  goodness  towards  your  family  and  yourself — 
you  talk  to  him,  he  has  served  under  the  Emperor,  and  is,  fcr 
all  that,  sensible,  modest,  and  well-informed.  He  speaks,  in- 
deed, of  his  countrymen  almost  with  contempt,  and  readily 
admits  the  superiority  of  a Briton,  on  the  seas  and  elsewhere. 


AN  INVASION  OF  FRA.NCE. 


9 


One  loves  to  meet  with  such  genuine  liberality  in  a foreigner, 
and  respects  the  man  who  can  sacrifice  vauit}'  to  truth.  This 
distinguished  foreigner  has  travelled  mucii ; he  asks  whither 
3'ou  are  going?  — where  3011  stop?  if  you  have  a great  quantity 
of  luggage  on  board  ? — and  laughs  when  he  hears  of  the  twent3'- 
seven  packages,  and  hopes  3’ou  have  some  friend  at  the  custom- 
house, who  can  si)are  3'Ou  the  monstrous  trouble  of  unpacking 
that  which  has  taken  3011  weeks  to  put  up.  Nine,  ten,  eleven',,  ' 
the  distinguished  foreigner  is  ever  at  your  side  ; you  find  liimi 
now,  perhaps,  (with  characteristic  ingratitude,)  something  of  a^ 
bore,  but,  at  least,  he  has  been  most  tender  to  the  children  awdi 
their  mamma.  At  last  a Boulogne  light  comes  in  sight,  (you 
see  it  over  the  bows  of  the  vessel,  when,  having  bobbed  violently 
upwards,  it  sinks  swiftly  down,)  Boulogne  harbor  is  in  sight, 
and  the  foreigner  savs,  — 

The  distinguished  foreigner  sa3’s,  says  he  — “ Sare,  eef  3’ou 
af  no  ’otel,  I sail  recoinincnd  3 011,  milor,  to  ze  ^Otel  Betfort,  in 
ze  Qua3%  sare,  close  to  the  bathing-machines  and  custom-ha- 
oose.  Good  bets  and  fine  garten,  sare  ; table-d’hote,  sare,  a 
cinq  heures  ; breakfast,  sare,  in  French  or  English  st3'lc  ; — I 
am  the  commissionaire,  sare,  and  vill  see  to  your  loggish.”’ 

. . . Curse  the  fellow,  for  an  impudent,  swindling,  sneaking. 
French  humbug! — Your  tone  instantl3' changes,  and  3'ou  tell' 
him  to  go  about  his  business  : l)ut  at  tweh^e  o’clock  at  night, 
when  the  A'03'age  is  over,  and  the  custom-house  business  done, 
knowing  not  whither  to  go,  with  a wife  and  fourteen  exhausted 
children,  scarce  able  to  stand,  and  longing  for  bed,  3^ou  find 
3'ourself,  somehow,  in  the  Hotel  Bedford  (and  3"OU  can’t  be 
better),  and  smiling  chambermaids  cany  off  your  children  to 
snug  beds;  while  smart  waiters  produce  for  your  honor — a 
cold  fowl,  say,  and  a salad,  and  a bottle  of  Bordeaux  and 
Seltzer-water. 

The  morning  comes  — I don’t  know  a pleasanter  feeling  than 
that  of  waking  with  the  sun  shining  on  objects  quite  new,  and 
(although  3'OU  have  made  the  voyage  a dozen  times,)  quite 
strange.  Mrs.  X.  and  you  occupy  a veiy  light  bed,  which  has 
a tall  canopy  of  red  “ 'percale ; ” the  windows  are  smartl3'  draped 
with  cheap  gaud3'  calicoes  and  muslins ; there  are  little  mean 
strips  of  carpet  about  the  tiled  floor  of  the  room,  and  3'et  all 
seems  as  ga3^  and  as  comfortable  as  maybe  — the  sun  shines 
brighter  than  3 011  have  seen  it  for  a 3 ear,  the  sky  is  a thousand 
times  bluer,  and  what  a cheer3'  clatter  of  shrili  quick  French 
voices  comes  up  from  the  court-3'ard  under  the  windows  ! Bells 


10 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


are  jangling  ; a famil}’,  mayhap,  is  going  to  Paris,  en  poste^  and 
wondrous  is  the  jabber  of  the  courier,  the  postilion,  the  inn- 
waiters,  and  the  lookers-on.  The  landlord  calls  out  for  “ Quatre 
biftecks  aux  pommes  pour  le  trente-trois,”  — (O  my  country- 
men, I love  your  tastes  and  your  ways  !)  — the  chambermaid  is 
laughing  and  says,  “ Finissez  done.  Monsieur  Pierre  ! ” (what 
can  the}'  be  about?)  — a fat  Englishman  has  opened  his  window 
violently,  and  says,  “ Dee  dong,  garsong,  vooly  voo  me  donny 
lo  sho,  ou  vooly  voo  pah?”  He  has  been  ringing  for  half  an 
hour  — the  last  energetic  appeal  succeeds,  and  shortly  he  is 
enabled  to  descend  to  the  coffee-room,  where,  with  three  hot 
rolls,  grilled  ham,  cold  fowl,  and  four  boiled  eggs,  he  makes 
what  he  calls  his  first  French  breakfast. 

It  is  a strange,  mongrel,  meny  place,  this  town  of  Boulogne  ; 
the  little  French  fishermen’s  children  are  beautiful,  and  the 
little  French  soldiers,  four  feet  high,  red-breeched,  with  huge 
pompons  on  their  caps,  and  brown  faces,  and  clear  sharp  eyes, 
look,  for  all  their  littleness,  far  more  military  and  more  intelli- 
gent than  the  heavy  louts  one  has  seen  swaggering  about  the 
garrison  towns  in  England.  Yonder  go  a crowd  of  bare-legged 
fishermen  ; there  is  the  town  idiot,  mocking  a woman  who  is 
screaming  ‘‘Fleuve.du  Tage,”  at  an  inn-window,  to  a harp, 
and  there  are  the  little  gamins  mocking  him.  Lo  ! these  seven 
young  ladies,  with  red  hair  and  green  veils,  they  are  from 
neighboring  Albion,  and  going  to  bathe.  Here  comes  three 
Englishmen,  habitues  evidently  of  the  place,  — dandy  specimens 
of  our  countrymen  : one  wears  a marine  dress,  another  has  a 
shooting  dress,  a third  has  a blouse  and  a pair  of  guiltless 
spurs  — all  have  as  much  hair  on  the  face  as  nature  or  art  can 
supply,  and  all  wear  their  hats  very  much  on  one  side.  Believe 
me,  there  is  ou  the  face  of  this  world  no  scamp  like  an  English 
one,  no  blackguard  like  one  of  these  half-gentlemen,  so  mean, 
so  low,  so  vulgar,  — so  ludicrously  ignorant  and  conceited,  so 
jdesperatel}'  heartless  and  depraved. 

But  why,  my  dear  sir,  get  into  a passion?  — Take  things 
coolly.  As  tlm  poet  has -observed,  “Those  only  is  gentlemen 
who  behave  as  sich  ; ” with  such,  then,  consort,  be  the}^  cobblers 
or  dukes.  Don’t  give  us,  cries  the  patriotic  reader,  any  abuse 
of  our  fellow-countrymen  (anybod}’  else  can  do  that),  but  rather 
continue  in  that  good-humored,  facetious,  descriptive  style  with 
which  your  letter  has  commenced. — Tour  remark,  sir,  is  per- 
fectly just,  and  does  honor  to  your  head  and  excellent  heart. 

There  is  little  need  to  give  a description  of  the  good  town  of 
Boulogne,  which,  haute  and  basse,  with  the  new  light-house  and 


AN  INVASION  OF  FRANCE. 


11 


the  new  harbor,  and  the  gas-lamps,  and  the  manufactures,  and 
the  convents,  and  the  number  of  English  and  French  residents, 
and  the  pillar  erected  in  honor  of  the  grand  Armee  d' Angleterre^ 
so  called  because  it  didn't  go  to  England,  have  all  been  excel- 
lently described  by  tlie  facetious  Coglan,  the  learned  Dr.  Mil- 
lingen,  and  by  innumerable  guide-l)ooks  besides.  A fine  thing 
it  is  to  hear  the  stout  old  Frenchmen  of  Napoleon’s  time  argue 
how  that  audacious  Corsican  woidd  have  marched  to  London, 
after  swallowing  Nelson  and  all  his  gun-boats,  but  for  cette  maU 
heureuse  guerre  (V Espagne  and  cette  gJorieuse  campagne  d' Autriche^ 
which  the  gold  of  Pitt  caused  to  be  raised  at  the  Emperor’s  tail, 
in  order  to  call  him  off  from  the  helpless  country  in  his  front. 
Some  Frenchmen  go  farther  still,  and  vow  that  in  Spain  they 
were  never  beaten  at  all ; indeed,  if  you  read  in  the  Biographie 
des  Ilommes  du  Jour,  article  “ Soult,”  you  will  fancy  that,  with 
the  exception  of  the  disaster  at  Vittoria,  the  campaigns  in  Spain 
and  Portugal  were  a series  of  triumphs.  Only,  by  looking  at 
a map,  it  is  observable  that  Vimeiro  is  a mortal  long  way  from 
Toulouse,  wdiere,  at  the  end  of  certain  3’ears  of  victories,  we 
somehow  find  the  honest  Marshal.  And  what  then? — he 
went  to  Toulouse  for  the  purpose  of  beating  the  English  there, 
to  be  sure;  — a known  fact,  on  which  comment  would  be  su- 
perfluous. However,  we  shall  never  get  to  Paris  at  this  rate  ; 
let  us  break  off  further  palaver,  and  awav  at  once.  . . . 

(During  this  pause,  the  ingenious  reader  is  kindlj^  requested 
to  pa}’  his  bill  at  the  Hotel  at  Boulogne,  to  mount  the  Diligence 
of  LafRtte,  Caillard  and  Company,  and  to  travel  for  twenty- five 
hours,  amidst  much  jingling  of  harness-bells  and  screaming  of 
postilions.) 

The  French  milliner,  who  occupies  one  of  the  corners,  be- 
gins to  remove  the  greasy  pieces  of  paper  which  have  enveloped 
her  locks  during  the  journey.  She  withdraws  the  ‘ ‘ Madras  ” 
of  dubious  hue  which  has  bound  her  head  for  the  last  five-and- 
twenty  hours,  and  replaces  it  by  the  black  velvet  bonnet,  which, 
bobbing  against  your  nose,  has  hung  from  the  Diligence  roof 
since  your  departure  from  Boulogne.  The  old  lady  in  the  oppo- 
site corner,  who  has  been  sucking  bonbons,  and  smells  dread- 
fully of  anisette,  arranges  her  little  parcels  in  that  immense 
basket  of  abominations  which  all  old  women  carry  in  their  laps. 
She  rubs  her  mouth  and  eyes  with  her  dusty  cambric  hand- 
kerchief, she  ties  up  her  nightcap  into  a little  bundle,  and  re- 
places it  by  a more  becoming  head-piece,  covered  with  withered 
artificial  flowers,  and  crumpled  tags  of  ribbon  ; she  looks  wist- 


12 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


fully  at  the  company  for  an  instant,  and  then  places  her  hand- 
kerchief before  her  mouth  : — her  eyes  roll  strangely  about  for 
an  instant,  and  3’ou  hear  a faint  clattering  noise : the  old  lady 
has  been  getting  ready  her  teeth,  which  had  lain  in  her  basket 
among  the  bonbons,  pins,  oranges,  pomatum,  bits  of  cake,  loz- 
enges, prayer-books,  peppermint- water,  copper  monej^  and 
false  hair  — stowed  awa}^  there  during  the  voyage.  The  Jewish 
gentleman,  who  has  been  so  attentive  to  the  milliner  during  the 
journe}',  and  is  a traveller  and  bagman  b}"  profession,  gathers 
together  his  various  goods.  The  sallow-faced  English  lad,  who 
has  been  drunk  ever  since  we  left  Boulogne  yesterday,  and  is 
coming  to  Paris  to  pursue  the  stiaty  of  medicine,  swears  that  he 
rejoices  to  leave  the  cursed  Diligence,  is  sick  of  the  infernal 
joLirne}',  and  d — d glad  that  the  d — d vo3’age  is  so  nearly  over. 
“ Enjin!’'  says  }’our  neighbor,  yawning,  and  inserting  an  elbow 
into  the  mouth  of  his  right  and  left  hand  companion,  “news 
voilhy 

Nous  VoiLA  ! — We  are  at  Paris!  This  must  account  for 
the  removal  of  the  milliner’s  curl-papers,  and  the  fixing  of  the 
old  lady’s  teeth.  — Since  the  last  relais^  the  Diligence  has  been 
travelling  with  extraordinaiy  speed.  The  postilion  cracks  his 
terrible  whip,  and  screams  shrill}'.  The  conductor  blows  in- 
cessantly on  his  horn,  the  bells  of  the  harness,  the  bumping  and 
ringing  of  the  wheels  and  chains,  and  the  clatter  of  the  great 
hoofs  of  the  heav}'  snorting  Norman  stallions,  have  wondrously 
increased  within  this,  the  last  ten  minutes  ; and  the  Diligence, 
which  has  been  proceeding  hitherto  at  the  rate  of  a league  in 
an  hour,  now  dashes  gallanth'  forward,  as  if  it  would  traverse  at 
least  six  miles  in  the  same  space  of  time.  Thus  it  is,  when 
Sir  Robert  maketh  a speech  at  Saint  Stephen’s  — he  useth  his 
strength  at  the  beginning,  only,  and  the  end.  He  gallopeth  at 
the  commencement ; in  the  middle  he  lingers  ; at  the  close, 
again,  he  rouses  the  House,  which  has  fallen  asleep;  he  crack- 
eth  the  whip  of  his  satire  ; he  shouts  the  shout  of  his  patriotism  ; 
and,  urging  his  eloquence  to  its  roughest  canter,  awakens  the 
sleepers,  and  ins[>ires  the  weary,  until  men  sa}'.  What  a won- 
drous orator  ! What  a capital  coach  ! We  will  ride  henceforth 
in  it,  and  in  no  other ! 

But,  behold  us  at  Paris  ! The  Diligence  has  reached  a rude- 
looking  gate,  or  grille^  flanked  In'  two  lodges;  the -French 
Kings  of  old  made  their  entiy  b}'  this  gate  ; some  of  the  hottest 
battles  of  the  late  revolution  were  fought  before  it.  At  pres- 
ent, it  is  blocked  by  carts  and  peasants,  and  a busy  crowd  of 
men,  in  green,  examining  the  packages  before  the}'  enteiq 


PORTE  ST.  DENIS. 


A.. 


AN  INVASION  OF  FRANCE. 


13 


probing  the  straw  with  long  needles.  It  is  the  Barrier  of  St 
Denis,  and  the  green  men  are  the  cnstoins’-men  of  the  city  of 
Paris.  If  3'ou  are  a countryman,  who  would  introduce  a cow 
into  the  metropolis,  the  cit\’  demands  twenty-four  francs  for 
such  a privilege  : if  3’ou  have  a hundi-edweiglit  of  tallow-candles, 
3’ou  must,  previousl3',  disburse  three  francs  : if  a drove  of  hogs, 
nine  francs  per  whole  hog : but  ui)on  these  subjects  Mr.  Bul- 
wer,  Mrs.  Trollope,  and  other  writers,  have  alread3'  enlight- 
ened the  public.  In  the  present  instance,  after  a momentaiy 
pause,  one  of  the  men  in  green  mounts  1)3'  the  side  of  the  coii' 
ductor,  and  the  ponderous  vehicle  pursues  its  Journe3'. 

The  street  which  we  enter,  that  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Denis, 
presents  a strange  contrast  to  the  dark  uniformit3’  of  a London 
street,  where  eveiything,  in  the  dingy  and  smokv  atmosphere, 
looks  as  though  it  were  painted  in  India-ink  — black  houses, 
black  passengers,  and  black  sky.  Here,  on  the  contraiy,  is  a 
thousand  times  more  life  and  color.  Before  3'ou,  shining  in  the 
sun,  is  a long  glistening  line  of  gutter,  — not  a very  pleasing 
object  in  a cit3',  but  in  a picture  invaluable.  On  each  side  are 
houses  of  all  dimensions  and  hues  ; some  but  of  one  story  ; 
some  as  high  as  the  tower  of  Babel.  From  these  the  haber- 
dashers (and  this  is  their  favorite  street)  flaunt  long  strips  of 
gaudy  calicoes,  which  give  a strange  air  of  rude  ga3'et3'  to  the 
street.  Milk-women,  with  a little  crowd  of  gossips  round  each, 
are,  at  this  early  hour  of  morning,  selling  the  chief  material  of 
the  Parisian  cafe-au-lait.  Gay  wine-shops,  painted  red,  and 
smartl3'  decorated  with  vines  and  gilded  railings,  are  filled  with 
workmen  taking  their  morning’s  draught.  That  gloomy-looking 
prison  on  3’our  right  is  a prison  for  women  ; once  it  was  a con- 
vent for  Lazarists  : a thousand  unfortunate  individuals  of  the 
softer  sex  now  occupy  that  mansion  : thc3^  bake,  as  we  find  in 
the  guide-books,  the  bread  of  all  the  other  prisons ; the3’'  mend 
and  wash  the  shirts  and  stockings  of  all  the  other  prisoners  ; they 
make  hooks-and-eyes  and  phosphorus-boxes,  and  they  attend 
chapel  eveiy  Sunda3" : — if  occupation  can  help  them,  sure  the3' 
have  enough  of  it.  Was  it  not  a great  stroke  of  the  legislature 
to  superintend  the  morals  and  linen  at  once,  and  thus  keep 
these  poor  creatures  continuall3'  mending  ? — But  we  have  passed 
the  prison  long  ago,  and  are  at  the  Porte  St.  Denis  itself. 

There  is  011I3'  time  to  take  a hasty  glance  as  we  pass : it 
commemorates  some  of  the  wonderful  feats  of  arms  of  Ludovi- 
cus  Magnus,  and  abounds  in  ponderous  allegories  — n3'mphs, 
and  river-gods,  and  pyramids  crowned  with  fleurs-de-lis  ; Louis 
passing  over  the  Rhine  in  triumph,  and  the  Dutch  Lion  giving 


14 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


up  the  ghost,  in  the  }^ear  of  our  Lord  1672.  The  Dutch  Lion 
revived,  and  overcame  the  man  some  years  afterwards  ; but  of 
this  fact,  singularl}'  enough,  the  inscriptions  make  no  mention. 
Passing,  then,  round t\\Q  gate,  and  not  under  it  (after  the  general 
custom,  in  respect  of  triumphal  arches),  3^011  cross  the  boulevard, 
which  gives  a glimpse  of  trees  and  sunshine,  and  gleaming 
white  buildings  ; then,  dashing  down  the  Rue  de  Bourbon  Ville- 
neuve,  a dirt}"  street,  which  seems  interminable,  and  the  Rue 
St.  Eustache,  the  conductor  gives  a last  blast  on  his  horn,  and 
the  great  vehicle  clatters  into  the  court-yard,  where  the  journey 
is  destined  to  conclude. 

If  there  was  a noise  before  of  screaming  postilions  and 
cracked  horns,  it  was  nothing  to  the  Babel-like  clatter  which 
greets  us  now.  We  are  in  a great  court,  which  Hajji  Baba 
would  call  the  father  of  Diligences.  Half  a dozen  other  coaches 
arrive  at  the  same  minute  — no  light  affairs,  like  }"our  English 
vehicles,  but  ponderous  machines,  containing  fifteen  passengers 
inside,  more  in  the  cabriolet,  and  vast  towers  of  luggage  on  the 
roof : others  are  loading : the  yard  is  filled  with  passengers 
coming  or  departing ; — bustling  porters  and  screaming  com- 
missionaires. These  latter  seize  3’ou  as  you  descend  from  3'our 
place,  — twent}"  cards  are  thrust  into  3"our  hand,  and  as  manj^ 
voices,  jabbering  with  inconceivable  swiftness,  shriek  into  3"Our 
ear,  “ Dis  wa}",  sare  ; are  you  for  ze  ‘ ’Otel  of  Rhin?  ’ ‘ Hotel  de 
r Amiraute  ! ’ — ‘ Hotel  Bristol,’  sare  ! — Monsieur ‘ V Hotel  de 
Lille‘S’  Sacr-rrre’nom  de  Dieu.  laissez  passer  ce  petit Monsieur  I 
Ow  mosh  loggish  ave  you,  sare?” 

And  now,  if  3-011  are  a stranger  in  Paris,  listen  to  the  words 
of  Titmarsh.  — If  3-011  cannot  speak  a syllable  of  French,  and 
love  English  comfort,  clean  rooms,  breakfasts,  and  waiters  ; if 
you  would  have  plentiful  dinners,  and  are  not  particular  (as  how 
should  you  be?)  concerning  wine;  if,  in  this  foreign  countiy, 
you  xoill  have  3-our  English  companions,  3’our  porter,  3-our 
friend,  and  3’oiir  brandy-and- water  — do  not  listen  to  an}-  of 
these  commissioner  fellows,  but  with  3'Our  best  English  accent, 
shout  out  boldly,  “ Meurice  ! ” and  straightwa}-  a man  will 
step  forward  to  conduct  you  to  the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 

Here  you  will  find  apartments  at  any  price : a ver}^  neat 
room,  for  instance,  for  three  francs  dail}- ; an  English  breakfast 
of  eternal  boiled  eggs,  or  grilled  ham  ; a nondescript  dinner, 
profuse  but  cold  ; and  a societ}-  which  will  rejoice  your  heart. 
Here  are  }’oung  gentlemen  from  the  universities  ; }-oung  mer- 
chants on  a lark  ; large  families  of  nine  daughters,  with  fat 
father  and  mother ; officers  of  dragoons,  and  law}'ers’  clerks. 


AN  INVASION  OF  FRANCE. 


15 


Hie  last  time  we  dined  at  “ Meurice’s  ” we  Fobbed  and  nobbed 
with  no  less  a person  than  Mr.  Moses,  the  celebrated  bailiff*  of 
Chancery  Lane  ; Lord  Brougham  was  on  his  right,  and  a clergy- 
man’s lad}^  with  a train  of  white-haired  girls,  sat  on  his  left, 
wonderfully  taken  with  the  diamond  rings  of  the  fascinating 
stranger ! 

It  is,  as  you  will  perceive,  an  admirable  way  to  see  Paris, 
especially  if  you  spend  your  days  reading  the  English  papers 
at  Galignani’s,  as  many  of  our  foreign  tourists  do. 

But  all  this  is  promiscuous,  and  not  to  the  purpose.  If,  — to 
continue  on  the  subject  of  hotel  choosing,  — if  you  love  quiet, 
heavy  bills,  and  the  best  taUe-d'hote  in  the  city,  go,  O stranger! 
to  the  “ Hotel  des  Princes  ; ” it  is  close  to  the  Boulevard,  and 
convenient  for  Frascati’s.  The  “ Hotel  Mirabeau”  possesses 
scarcel}'  less  attraction  ; but  of  this  you  will  find,  in  Mr.  Bul- 
wer’s  “ Autobiogra})!!}'  of  Pelham,”  a faithful  and  complete 
account.  “Lawson’s  Hotel”  has  likewise  its  merits,  as  also 
the  “Hotel  de  Lille,”  which  ma}'  be  described  as  a “second 
chop  ” Meurice. 

If  3’ou  are  a poor  student  come  to  study  the  humanities,  or 
the  pleasant  art  of  amputation,  cross  the  water  forthwith,  and 
proceed  to  the  “ Hotel  Corneille,”  near  the  Odeon,  or  others  of 
its  species  ; there  are  man}'  where  you  can  live  royally  (until 
you  economize  by  going  into  lodgings)  on  four  francs  a day ; 
and  where,  if  by  any  strange  chance  you  are  desirous  for  a 
while  to  get  rid  of  your  countrymen,  you  will  find  that  they 
scarcely  ever  penetrate. 

But  above  all,  O my  countrymen  I shun  boarding-houses, 
especially  if  you  have  ladies  in  your  train  ; or  ponder  well,  and 
examine  the  characters  of  the  keepers  thereof,  before  you  lead 
}'Our  innocent  daughters,  and  their  mamma,  into  places  so 
dangerous.  In  the  first  place,  you  have  bad  dinners  ; and, 
secondly,  bad  company.  If  you  play  cards,  you  are  very  likely 

playing  with  a swindler ; if  you  dance,  you  dance  with  a 

person  with  whom  you  had  better  have  nothing  to  do. 

Note  (which  ladies  are  requested  not  to  read).  — In  one  of  these  estab- 
lishments, daily  advertised  as  most  eligible  for  English,  a friend  of  the 
writer  lived.  A lady,  who  had  passed  for  some  time  as  the  wife  of  one  of 
the  inmates,  suddenly  changed  her  husband  and  name,  her  original  husband 
remaining  in  the  house,  and  saluting  her  by  her  new  title. 


A CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS. 


A MILLION  dangers  and  snares  await  the  traveller,  as  soon  as 
he  issues  out  of  that  vast  messagerie  which  we  have  just  quitted  : 
and  as  each  man  cannot  do  better  than  relate  such  events  as 
have  happened  in  the  course  of  his  own  experience,  and  may 
keep  the  unwar}"  from  the  path  of  danger,  let  us  take  this,  the 
very  earliest  opportunity,  of  imparting  to  the  public  a little  of 
the  wisdom  which  we  painfully  have  acquired. 

And  first,  then,  with  regard  to  the  city  of  Paris,  it  is  to  be 
remarked,  that  in  that  metropolis  flourish  a greater  number  of 
native  and  exotic  swindlers  than  are  to  be  found  in  an}"  other 
European  nursery.  What  young  Englishman  that  visits  it,  but 
has  not  determined,  in  his  heart,  to  have  a little  share  of  the 
gayeties  that  go  on — just  for  once,  just  to  see  what  they  are 
hke?  How  many,  when  the  horrible  gambling  dens  were  open, 
did  resist  a sight  of  them?  — na}N  was  not  a young  fellow 
rather  flattered  by  a dinner  invitation  from  the  Salon,  whither 
he  went,  fondly  pretending  that  he  should  see  “French  so- 
ciety,” in  the  persons  of  certain  Dukes  and  Counts  who  used  to 
frequent  the  place  ? 

INIy  friend  Pogson  is  a young  fellow,  not  much  worse, 
although  perhaps  a little  weaker  and  simpler  than  his  neigh- 
bors ; and  coming  to  Paris  with  exactly  the  same  notions  that 
bring  many  others  of  the  British  youth  to  that  capital,  events 
befell  him  there,  last  winter,  which  are  strictly  true,  and  shall 
here  be  narrated,  by  way  of  warning  to  all. 

Pog,  it  must  be  premised,  is  a city  man,  who  travels  in 
drugs  for  a couple  of  the  best  London  houses,  blows  the  flute, 
has\n  album,  drives  his  owu  gig,  aud  is  considered,  both  on 
the  road  and  in  the  metropolis,  a remarkably  nice,  intelligent, 
thriving  young  man.  Pogson’s  only  fault  is  too  great  an  attach- 


A CAUTTOX  TO  TRAVELLERS. 


17 


ment  to  the  fair : — “ the  sex,”  as  he  says  often  “ will  be  his 
ruin:”  the  fact  is,  that  Pog  never  travels  without  a “Don 
Juan”  under  his  driving-cushion,  and  is  a prett3'-looking  young 
fellow  enough. 

Sam  Pogson  had  occasion  to  visit  Paris,  last  October ; and 
it  was  in  that  city  that  his  love  of  the  sex  had  liked  to  have 
cost  him  dear.  He  worked  his  wa}'  down  to  Dover ; placing, 
right  and  left,  at  the  towns  on  his  route,  rhubarb,  sodas,  and 
other  such  delectable  wares  as  liis  masters  dealt  in  (“  the 
sweetest  sample  of  castor  oil,  smelt  like  a nosegay  — went  off 
like  wildfire  — hogshead  and  a half  at  Rochester,  eight-and 
twenty  gallons  at  Canterl)ury,”  and  so  on),  and  crossed  to 
Calais,  and  thence  voyaged  to  Paris  in  the  coupe  of  the  Dili- 
gence. He  paid  for  two  [daces,  too,  although  a single  man, 
and  the  reason  shall  now  be  made  known. 

Dining  at  the  table-dhofe  at  “ Quillacq’s  ” — it  is  the  best  inn 
on  the  Continent  of  Europe  — our  little  traveller  had  the  hap- 
piness to  be  placed  next  to  a lady,  wlio  was,  he  saw  at  a glance, 
one  of  the  extreme  pink  of  the  nobilit}'.  A large  lady,  in  black 
satin,  with  eves  and  hair  as  black  as  sloes,  with  gold  chains, 
scent-bottles,  sable  tippet,  worked  [)ocket-handkerchief,  and 
four  twinkling  rings  on  each  of  her  plump  white  fingers.  Her 
cheeks  were  as  pink  as  the  finest  Chinese  rouge  could  make 
them.  Pog  knew  the  article  : he  travelled  in  it.  Her  lips 
were  as  red  as  the  rub}'  lip  salve  : she  used  the  very  best,  that 
was  clear. 

She  was  a fine-looking  woman,  certainly  (holding  down  her 
e}'es,  and  talking  perpetuall}' of  “ wes  trente-deux  ans”)  ; and 
Pogson,  the  wicked  }’oung  clog,  who  professed  not  to  care  for 
3'oung  misses,  saying  they  smelt  so  of  bread-and-butter,  de- 
clared, at  once,  that  the  lady  was  one  of  /ns  beauties  ; in  fact, 
when  he  spoke  to  us  about  her,  he  said,  “ She’s  a slap-up 
thing,  I tell  }’ou  ; a reg’lar  good  one;  one  of  my  sort  I ” And 
such  was  Pogson’s  credit  in  all  commercial  rooms,  that  one  of 
his  sort  was  considered  to  surpass  all  other  sorts. 

During  dinner-time,  Mr.  Pogson  was  profoundl}'  polite  and 
attentive  to  the  lach'  at  his  side,  and  kindl}"  communicated  to 
her,  as  is  the  wa}"  with  the  best-bred  English  on  their  first 
arrival  “on  the  Continent,”  all  his  impressions  regarding  the 
sights  and  persons  he  had  seen.  Such  remarks  having  been 
made  during  half  an  hour’s  ramble  about  the  ramparts  and 
town,  and  in  the  course  of  a walk  down  to  the  custom-house, 
and  a confidential  communication  with  the  commissionaire^  must 
be,  doubtless,  ver}^  valuable  to  Frenchmen  in  their  own  countrv  ; 

2 


18 


THE  PARTS  SKETCH  BOOK.  . 


and  the  lady  listened  to  Pogson’s  opinions  : not  only  with  be- 
nevolent attention,  but  actuall}',  she  said,  with  pleasure  and 
delight.  Mr.  Pogson  said  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
good  meat  in  France,  and  that’s  why  they  cooked  their  victuals 
in  this  queer  wa}' ; he  had  seen  many  soldiers  parading  about 
the  place,  and  expressed  a true  Englishman’s  abhorrence  of  an 
armed  force  ; not  that  he  feared  such  fellows  as  these  — little 
whipper-snappers  — our  men  would  eat  them.  Hereupon  the 
lad}"  admitted  that  our  Guards  were  angels,  but  that  Monsieur 
must  not  be  too  hard  upon  the  French  ; “ her  father  was  a 
General  of  the  Emperor.” 

Pogson  felt  a tremendous  respect  for  himself  at  the  notion 
that  he  was  dining  with  a General’s  daughter,  and  instantly 
ordered  a bottle  of  champagne  to  keep  up  his  consequence. 

“ Mrs.  Bironn,  ma’am,”  said  he,  for  he  had  heard  the  waiter 
call  her  by  some  such  name,  “ if  you  will  accept  a glass  of 
champagne,  ma’am,  you’ll  do  me.  I’m  sure,  great  Aonor : they 
say  it’s  very  good,  and  a precious  sight  cheaper  than  it  is  on 
our  side  of  the  way,  too  — not  that  I care  for  money.  Mrs. 
Bironn,  ma’am,  your  health,  ma’am.” 

The  lady  smiled  very  graciously,  and  drank  the  wine. 

“ Har  you  any  relation,  ma’am,  if  I may  make  so  bold; 
har  you  anyways  connected  with  the  family  of  our  immortal 
bard  ? ” 

“ Sir,  I beg  your  pardon.” 

“ Don’t  mention  it,  ma’am  : but  bironn  and  Byron  are  hevi- 
dently  the  same  names,  only  you  pronounce  in  the  French  way  ; 
and  I thought  you  might  be  related  to  his  lordship  : his  horigin, 
ma’am,  was  of  French  extraction : ” and  here  Pogson  began  to 
repeat,  — 

“ Hare  thy  heyes  like  thy  mother’s,  my  fair  child, 

Hada ! sole  daughter  of  my  ’ouse  and  ’art  ? ” 

“Oh!”  said  the  lady,  laughing,  “you  speak  of  Lor 
Byron  ? ” 

“ Hauthor  of  ‘Don  Juan,’  ‘Child  ’Arold,’  and  ‘Cain,  a 
Mystery,’”  said  Pogson:  — “I  do;  and  hearing  the  waiter 
calling  you  Madam  la  Bironn,  took  the  liberty  of  basking 
whether  you  were  connected  with  his  lordship  ; that’s  hall : ” 
and  my  friend  here  grew  dreadfully  red,  and  began  twiddling 
his  long  ringlets  in  his  fingers,  and  examining  very  eagerly  the 
contents  of  his  plate. 

“Oh,  no:  Madame  la  Baronne  means  Mistress  Baroness; 
my  husband  was  Baron,  and  I am  Baroness.” 


A CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS. 


19 


What ! ’ave  I the  honor — I beg  your  pardon,  ma’am  — is 
your  ladyship  a Baroness,  and  I not  know  it?  pray  excuse  me 
for  calling  you  ma’am.” 

The  Baroness  smiled  most  graciously  — with  such  a look  as 
Juno  cast  upon  unfortunate  Jupiter  when  she  wished  to  gain 
her  wicked  ends  upon  him  — the  Baroness  smiled;  and,  steal- 
ing her  hand  into  a black  velvet  bag,  drew  from  it  an  ivoiyi 
card-case,  and  fiom  the  ivory  card-case  extracted  a glazed' 
card,  printed  in  gold  ; on  it  was  engraved  a coronet,  and  under 
the  coronet  the  words 


BARONNE  DE  FLORVAL-DELVAL, 
Nils  CE  MELVAL-NORVAL. 

Rue  Taitbout. 


The  grand  Pitt  diamond  — - the  Queen’s  own  star  of  the 
garter  — a sample  of  otto-of-roses  at  a guinea  a drop,  would 
not  be  handled  more  curiousl}',  or  more  respectfull}’,  than  this 
porcelain  card  of  the  Baroness.  Trembling  he  put  it  into  his 
little  Russia-leather  pocket-book  : and  when  he  ventured  to  look 
up,  and  saw  the  eyes  of  the  Baroness  de  Florval-Delval,  Jiec, 
de  Melval-Norval,  gazing  upon  him  with  friendl}^  and  serene 
glances,  a thrill  of  pride  tingled  through  Pogson’s  blood  : he 
felt  himself  to  be  the  very  happiest  fellow  on  the  Continent” 
But  Pogson  did  not,  for  some  time,  venture  to  resume  that 
sprighth'  and  elegant  himiliarit}^  which  generally  forms  the 
great  charm  of  his  conversation  : he  was  too  much  frightened 
at  the  presence  he  was  in,  and  contented  himself  by  graceful 
and  solemn  bows,  deep  attention,  and  ejaculations  of  “ Yes, 
my  lad}',”  and  ‘‘  No,  your  ladyship,”  for  some  minutes  after 
the  discovery  had  been  made.  Pogson  piqued  himself  on  his 
breeding:  *-‘1  hate  the  aristocrac}^”  he  said,  “but  that’s  no 
reason  wh}'  I shouldn’t  behave  like  a gentleman.” 

A surly,  silent  little  gentleman,  who  had  been  the  third  at  the 
ordinal’}',  and  would  take  no  part  either  in  the  conversation  or 
in  Pogson’s  champagne,  now  took  up  his  hat,  and,  grunting,  left 
the  room,  when  the  happy  bagman  had  the  delight  of  a tete-a-tUe. 
The  Baroness  did  not  appear  inclined  to  move  : it  was  cold ; 
a fire  was  comfortable,  and  she  had  ordered  none  in  her  apart- 
ment. Might  Pogson  give  her  one  more  glass  of  champagne, 
or  would  her  ladyship  prefer  “something  hot.”  Her  ladyship 


20 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


gravely  said,  she  never  took  anything  hot.  “ Some  champagne, 
then  ; a leetle  drop  ? ” She  would  !.  she  would  ! O gods  ! 
how  Pogson’s  hand  shook  as  he  filled  and  offered  her  the 


What  took  place  during  the  rest  of  the  evening  had  better  be 
described  by  Mr.  Pogson  himself,  who  has  given  us  permission 
to  publish  his  letter. 

“ Quillacq’s  Hotel  {pronounced  Killy  ax),  Calais. 

“Dear  Tit,  — I arrived  at  Cally,  as  they  call  it,  this  day,  or,  rather, 
yesterday ; for  it  is  past  midnight,  as  I sit  thinking  of  a wonderful  adven- 
iure  that  has  just  befallen  me.  A woman  in  course;  that’s  always  the  case 
with  me,  you  know:  but  oh.  Tit!  if  you  could  but  see  her!  Of  the  first 
family  in  France,  the  Florval-Delvals,  beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  no  more 
caring  for  money  than  I do  for  split  peas. 

“ I’ll  tell  you  how  it  occurred.  Everybody  in  France,  you  know,  dines 
at  the  ordinary  — it’s  quite  distangy  to  do  so.  There  was  only  three  of  us 
to-day,  however,  — the  Baroness,  me,  and  a gent,  who  never  spoke  a word; 
and  we  didn’t  want  him  to,  neither : do  you  mark  that? 

“You  know  my  way  with  the  women:  champagne’s  the  thing;  make 
'em  drink,  make  ’em  talk  ; — make  ’em  talk,  make  ’em  do  anything.  So  I 
orders  a bottle,  as  if  for  myself ; and,  ‘ Ma’am,’  says  I,  ‘ will  you  take  a 
glass  of  Sham — just  one?  ’ Take  it  she  did  — for  you  know  it’s  quite 
distangy  here : everybody  dines  at  the  table  de  hole,  and  everybody  accepts 
everybody’s  wine.  Bob  Irons,  who  travels  in  linen  on  our  circuit,  told  me 
that  he  had  made  some  slap-up  acquaintances  among  the  genteelest  people 
at  Paris,  nothing  but  by  offering  them  Sham. 

“ Well,  my  Baroness  takes  one  glass,  two  glasses,  three  glasses  — the 
old  fellow  goes  — we  have  a deal  of  chat  (she  took  me  for  a military  man, 
she  said  ; is  it  not  singular  that  so  many  people  should  ? ),  and  by  ten  o’clock 
we  had  grown  so  intimate,  that  I had  from  her  her  whole  history,  knevt 
where  she  came  from,  and  where  she  was  going.  Leave  me  alone  with 
’em : I can  find  out  any  woman’s  history  in  half  an  hour. 

“ And  where  do  you  think  she  is  going?  to  Paris  to  be  sure:  she  has 
her  seat  in  what  they  call  the  coopy  (though  you’re  not  near  so  cooped  in 
it  as  in  our  coaches.  I’ve  been  to  the  ofiice  and  seen  one  of  ’em).  She  has 
her  place  in  the  coopy,  and  the  coopy  holds  three ; so  wdiat  does  Sam  Pogson 
do  ? — he  goes  and  takes  the  other  two.  Ain’t  I up  to  a thing  or  two  ? Oh, 
no,  not  the  least ; but  I shall  have  her  to  myself  the  whole  of  the  way. 

“ We  shall  be  in  the  French  metropolis  the  day  after  this  reaches  you: 
please  look  out  for  a handsome  lodging  for  me,  and  never  mind  the  expense. 
And  I say,  if  you  could,  in  her  hearing,  when  you  came  down  to  the  coach, 
call  me  Captain  Pogson,  I wish  you  would  — it  sounds  well  travelling,  you 
know ; and  when  she  asked  me  if  I was  not  an  officer,  I couldn’t  say  no. 
Adieu,  then,  my  dear  fellow,  till  Monday,  and  vive  le  joy,  as  they  say. 
The  Baroness  says  I speak  French  charmingly,  she  talks  English  as  well 
as  you  or  I. 

“ Your  affectionate  friend, 

“ S.  Pogson.” 

This  letter  reached  us  duly,  in  our  garrets,  and  we  engaged 
such  an  apartment  for  Mr.  Pogson,  as  beseemed  a gentleman  of 


A CAUTJON  TO  TRAVELLERS. 


21 


his  rank  in  the  world  and  the  army.  At  the  appointed  hour, 
too,  we  repaired  to  the  Diligence  office,  and  there  beheld  the 
arrival  of  the  machine  which  contained  him  and  his  lovely 
Baroness. 

Those  who  have  much  frequented  tlie  society  of  gentlemen 
of  his  profession  (and  what  more  delightful?)  must  be  aware, 
that,  when  all  the  rest  of  mankind  look  hideous,  dirty-  peevish, 
wretched,  after  a fort}'  hours’  coach-journey,  a bagman  appears 
as  ga}'  and  spruce  as  when  he  started  ; having  within  himself 
a thousand  little  conveniences  for  the  voyage,  which  common 
travellers  neglect.  Togson  had  a little  portable  toilet,  of  which 
he  had  not  failed  to  take  advantage,  and  with  his  long,  curling, 
tlaxen  hair,  llowing  under  a seal-skin  cap,  with  a gold  tassel, 
with  a blue  and  gold  satin  handkerchief,  a crimson  velvet  waist- 
coat, a light  green  cut-away  coat,  a [)air  of  barred  brickdust-col- 
ored  pantaloons,  and  a neat  maekiiitosh,  presented,  altogether, 
as  elegant  and  distingue  an  appearance  as  an}’  one  could  desire. 
He  had  put  on  a clean  collar  at  breakfast,  and  a pair  of  white 
kids  as  he  entered  the  barrier,  and  looked,  as  he  rushed  into 
my  arms,  more  like  a man  stepping  out  of  a band-box,  than  one 
descending  from  a vehicle  that  has  just  performed  one  of  the 
laziest,  dullest,  llattest,  stalest,  dirtiest  journeys  in  Europe. 

To  my  surprise,  there  were  two  ladies  in  the  coach  with  my 
friend,  and  not  as  Iliad  expected.  One  of  these,  a stout 
female,  carrying  sundry  baskets,  bags,  umbrellas,  and  woman’s 
wraps,  was  evidently  a maid-servant : the  other,  in  black,  was 
Pogson’s  fair  one,  evidently.  I could  see  a gleam  of  curl-papers 
over  a sallow  face,  — of  a dusky  nightcap  flapping  over  the 
curl-papers,  — but  these  were  hidden  by  a lace  A cil  and  a huge 
velvet  bonnet,  of  wdiich  the  crowning  birds-of-paradise  were 
evidently  in  a moulting  state.  -She  was  encased  in  many  shawls 
and  wrappers  ; she  put,  hesitatingly,  a pretty  little  foot  out  of 
the  carriage  — Pogson  was  by  her  side  in  an  instant,  and,  gaP 
lantly  putting  one  of  his  white  kids  round  her  waist,  aided  this 
interesting  creature  to  descend.  I saw,  by  her  walk,  that  she 
was  flve-and-forty,  and  that  my  little  Pogson  was  a lost  man. 

After  some  brief  parley  between  them  — in  which  it  was 
charming  to  hear  how  my  friend  Samuel  would  speak,  what  he 
called  French,  to  a lady  who  could  not  understand  one  syllable 
of  his  jargon  — the  mutual  hackney-coaches  drew  up  ; Madame 
la  Baronne  waved  to  the  Captain  a graceful  French  curtsy. 
'•‘Mi^you!”  said  Samuel,  and  waved  his  lily  hand.  Adyou- 
addimang.” 

A brisk  little  gentleman,  who  had  made  the  journey  in  the 


22 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


same  coach  with  Pogson,  but'had  more  modes%  taken  a seat 
in  the  Imperial,  here  passed  us,  and  greeted  me  with  a “ How 
d’ye  do?”  He  had  shouldered  his  own  little  valise,  and  was 
trudging  off,  scattering  a cloud  of  commissionaires^  who  would 
fain  have  spared  him  the  trouble. 

“Do  you  know  that  chap?”  says  Pogson;  “surly  fellow, 
ain’t  he  ? ” 

“The  kindest  man  in  existence,”  answered  I;  “all  the 
world  knows  little  Major  British.” 

“He’s  a Major,  is  he?  — why,  that’s  the  fellow  that  dined 
with  us  at  Killyax’s  ; it’s  luck}^  I did  not  call  myself  Captain 
before  him,  he  mightn’t  have  liked  it,  you  know : ” and  then 
Sam  fell  into  a reverie  ; — what  was  the  subject  of  his  thoughts 
soon  appeared. 

“ Did  you  ever  see  such  a foot  and  ankle?”  said  Sam,  after 
sitting  for  some  time,  regardless  of  the  novelty  of  the  scene, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  plunged  in  the  deepest  thought. 

'"''Isn't  she -a  slap-up  woman,  eh,  now?”  pursued  he;  and 
began  enumerating  her  attractions,  as  a horse-jock e}^  would  the 
points  of  a favorite  animal. 

“You  seem  to  have  gone  a prett}^  length  already,”  said  I, 
“ by  promising  to  visit  her  to-morrow.” 

“A  good  length?  — I believe  you.  Leave  me  alone  for 
that.” 

“ But  I thought  you  were  only  to  be  two  in  the  coupe  ^ you 
wicked  rogue.” 

“ Two  in  the  coopy"^  Oh!  ah  I yes,  you  know  — why,  that 
is,  I didn’t  know  she  had  her  maid  with  her  (what  an  ass  I was 
to  think  of  a noblewoman  travelling  without  one  1)  and  couldn’t, 
in  course,  refuse,  when  she  asked  me  to  let  the  maid  in.” 

“ Of  course  not.” 

“Couldn’t,  you  know,  as  a man  of  Aonor ; but  I made  up 
for  all  that,”  said  Pogson,  winking  slyly,  and  putting  his  hand 
to  his  little  bunch  of  a nose,  in  a veiy  knowing  wa}^ 

“ You  did,  and  how?” 

“ Wly,  3^ou  dog,  I sat  next  to  her;  sat  in  the  middle  the 
whole  wa}^  and  m}^  back’s  half  broke,  I can  tell  }"Ou : ” and 
thus,  having  depicted  his  happiness,  we  soon  reached  the  inn 
where  this  back-broken  young  man  was  to  lodge  during  his  stay 
in  Paris. 

The  next  day  at  five  we  met ; Mr.  Pogson  had  seen  his 
Baroness,  and  described  her  lodgings,  in  his  own  expressive 
way,  as  “slap-up.”  She  had  received  him  quite  like  an  old 
friend ; treated  him  to  eau  sucree,  of  which  beverage  he  ex- 


A CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS. 


23 


pressed  himself  a great  admirer ; and  actuall}"  asked  him  to 
dine  the  next  day.  But  there  was  a cloud  over  the  ingenuous 
3’outh’s  brow,  and  I inquired  still  farther. 

“ Wh^y”  said  he,  with  a sigh,  “ I thought  she  was  a widow ; 
and,  hang  it ! who  should  come  in  but  her  husband  the  Baron  : 
a big  fellow,  sir,  with  a blue  coat,  a red  ribbing,  and  such  a 
pair  of  mustachios  ! ” 

“ Well,”  said  I,  “ he  didn’t  turn  you  out,  Fsuppose?  ” 

“ Oh,  no  ! on  the  contraiy,  as  kind  as  possible  ; his  lordship 
said  that  he  respected  the  English  army  ; asked  me  what  corps 
I was  in,  — said  he  had  fought  in  Spain  against  us,  — ■ and  made 
me  welcome.” 

“ What  could  you  want  more?  ” 

Mr.  Pogson  at  this  only  whistled  ; and  if  some  very  profound 
observer  of  human  nature  had  been  there  to  read  into  this  little 
bagman’s  heart,  it  would,  perhaps,  have  been  manifest,  that  the 
appearance  of  a whiskered  soldier  of  a husband  had  counter- 
acted some  plans  that  the  young  scoundrel  was  concocting. 

I live  up  a hundred  and  thirt3'-seven  steps  in  the  remote 
quarter  of  the  Luxembourg,  and  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that 
such  a fashionable  fellow  as  Sam  Pogson,  with  his  pockets  full 
of  mone3’,  and  a new  cit3"  to  see,  should  be  always  wandering 
to  my^  dull  quarters  ; so  that,  although  he  did  not  make  his 
appearance  for  some  time,  he  must  not  be  accused  of  any  luke- 
warmness of  friendship  on  that  score. 

He  was  out,  too,  when  I called  at  his  hotel ; but  once,  I had 
the  good  fortune  to  see  him,  with  his  hat  curiously^  on  one  side, 
looking  as  pleased  as  Punch,  and  being  driven,  in  an  open  cab, 
in  the  Champs  Elysees.  “ That’s  another  tip-top  chap,”  said 
he,  when  we  met,  at  length.  “ What  do  you  think  of  an  Earl’s 
son,  my-  boy'?  Honorable  Tom  Ringwood,  son  of  the  Earl  of 
Cinqbars  : what  do  you  think  of  that,  eh  ? ” 

I thought  he  was  getting  into  very'  good  society.  Sam  was 
a dashing  fellow,  and  was  alway’s  above  his  own  line  of  life  ; he 
had  met  Mr.  Ringwood  at  the  Baron’s,  and  they'’d  been  to  the 
play'  together ; and  the  honorable  gent,  as  Sam  called  him,  had 
joked  with  him  about  being  well  to  do  in  a certain  quarter  ; and 
he  had  had  a game  of  billiards  with  the  Baron,  at  the  Estaminy, 
“ a very  distangy  place,  where  you  smoke,”  said  Sam  ; “ quite 
select,  and  frequented  by  the  tip-top  nobility  ; ” and  they^  were 
as  thick  as  peas  in  a shell ; and  they  were  to  dine  that  day'  at 
Ringwood’s,  and  sup,  the  next  night,  with  the  Baroness. 

“I  think  the  chaps  down  the  road  will  stare,”  said  Sam, 
when  they  hear  how  I’ve  been  coming  it.”  And  stare,  no 


24 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


doubt,  they  would  ; for  it  is  certain  that  very  few  commercial 
gentlemen  have  had  Mr.  Pogson’s  advantages. 

The  next  morning  we  had  made  an  arrangement  to  go  out 
shopping  together,  and  to  purchase  some  articles  of  female 
gear,  that  Sam  intended  to  bestow  on  his  relations  when  he 
returned.  Seven  needle-books,  for  his  sisters ; a gilt  buckle, 
for  his  mamma ; a handsome  French  cashmere  shawl  and 
bonnet,  for  his  aunt  (the  old  lady  keeps  an  inn  in  the  Borough, 
and  has  plenty  of  money,  and  no  heirs)  ; and  a toothpick  case, 
for  his  father.  Sam  is  a good  fellow  to  all  his  relations,  and  as 
for  his  aunt,  he  adores  her.  Well,  we  were  to  go  and  make 
these  purchases,  and  I arrived  punctuall}’  at  my  time  ; but  Sam 
was  stretched  on  a sofa,  veiy  pale  and  dismal. 

I saw  how  it  had  been.  — '‘A  little  too  much  of  Mr.  Ring- 
wood’s  claret,  I suppose  ? ” 

He  onh’  gave  a sickl}'  stare. 

“ Where  does  the  Honorable  Tom  live?  ” says  I. 

^'‘Honorable!''  sa^^s  Sam,  with  a hollow,  horrid  laugh;  “I 
tell  3’ou,  Tit,  he’s  no  more  Honorable  than  you  are.” 

“ What,  an  impostor?  ” 

“No,  no  ; not  that.  He  is  a real  Honorable,  only  — ” 

“ Oh,  ho  ! 1 smell  a rat  — a little  jealous,  eh? ” 

“Jealousy  be  hanged!  I tell  you  he’s  a thief;  and  the 
Baron’s  a thief ; and,  hang  me,  if  I think  his  wife  is  an}"  better. 
Eight-and-thirty  pounds  he  won  of  me  before  supper  ; and  made 
me  drunk,  and  sent  me  home  : — is  that  honorable?  How  can 
I afford  to  lose  forty  pounds  ? It’s  took  me  two  years  to  save 
it  up : — if  my  old  aunt  gets  wind  of  it,  she’ll  cut  me  off  with  a 
shilling:  hang  me!”  — and  here  Sam,  in  an  agony,  tore  his 
fair  hair. 

While  bewailing  his  lot  in  this  lamentable  strain,  his  bell  was 
rung,  which  signal  being  answered  by  a surly  “Come  in,”  a 
tall,  very  fashionable  gentleman,  with  a fur  coat,  and  a fierce 
tuft  to  iiis  chin,  entered  the  room.  “ Pogson  my  buck,  how 
goes  it?”  said  he,  familiarly,  and  gave  a stare  at  me:  I was 
making  for  my  hat. 

“Don’t  go,”  said  Sam,  rather  eagerly;  and  I sat  down 
again. 

The  Honorable  Mr.  Ringwood  hummed  and  ha’d  : and,  at 
last,  said  he  wished  to  speak  to  Mr.  Pogson  on  business,  in 
private,  if  possible. 

“ There’s  no  secrets  betwixt  me  and  m}"  friend,”  cried  Sam. 

Mr.  Ringwood  paused  a little:  — “An  awkward  business 
that  of  last  night,”  at  length  exclaimed  he. 


A CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLP:RS. 


25 


‘•I  believe  it  was  an  awkward  business,”  said  Sam,  dryly. 

I reall}'  am  very  sorry  for  your  losses.” 

“ Thank  yon  : and  so  am  I,  / can  tell  you,”  said  Sam. 

“ You  must  mind,  my  good  fellow,  and  not  drink  ; for,  when 
you  drink,  you  will  play  high  : by  Gad,  you  led  us  in,  and  not 
we  3^ou.” 

“ I dare  say,”  answered  Sam,  with  something  of  peevishness  ; 
“ losses  is  losses  : there’s  no  use  talking  about  ’em  when  they’re 
over  and  paid.” 

“ And  paid?  ” here  wonderingl}’  spoke  Mr.  Ringwood  ; “ wh}’, 
my  dear  fel — what  the  deuce  — has  Florval  been  with  3’ou?” 

“ D — Florval ! ” growled  Sam,  ‘‘  Fve  never  set  eyes  on  his 
face  since  last  night ; and  never  wish  to  see  him  again.” 

“Come,  come,  enough  of  this  talk;  how  do  you  intend  to 
settle  the  bills  which  yon  gave  him  last  night?” 

“ Bills  ! what  do  you  mean?  ” 

“ I mean,  sir,  these  bills,”  said  the  Honorable  Tom,  produ- 
cing two  out  of  his  pocket-book,  and  looking  as  stern  as  a lion. 
“ ‘ 1 promise  to  pa}',  on  demand,  to  the  Baron  de  Florval,  the 
sum  of  four  hundred  pounds.  October  20,  1838.’  ‘Ten  days 
after  date  I promise  to  pa}'  the  Baron  de  et  caetera  et  caetera, 
one  hundred  and  ninety-eight  pounds.  Samuel  Pogson.'  You 
didn’t  say  what  regiment  you  were  in.” 

“ WiiAT  ! ” shouted  poor  Sam,  as  from  a dream,  starting  up 
and  looking  preternaturally  pale  and  hideous. 

“D — it,  sir,  you  don’t  affect  ignorance  : you  don’t  pretend 
not  to  remember  that  you  signed  these  bills,  for  money  lost  in 
my  rooms : money  lent  to  you,  by  Madame  de  Florval,  at  your 
own  request,  and  lost  to  her  husband?  You  don’t  suppose,  sir, 
that  I shall  be  such  an  infernal  idiot  as  to  believe  you,  or  such 
a coward  as  to  put  up  with  a mean  subterfuge  of  this  sort. 
Will  you,  or  will  you  not,  pay  the  money,  sir?” 

“ I will  not,”  said  Sam,  stoutly  ; “ it’s  a d — d swin — ” 

Here  Mr.  Ringwood  sprung  up,  clenching  his  riding-whip, 
and  looking  so  fierce  that  Sam  and  I bounded  back  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  “Utter  that  word  again,  and,  by  heaven.  I’ll 
murder  you  ! ” shouted  Mr.  Ringwood,  and  looked  as  if  he 
would,  too:  “once  more,  will  you,  or  will  you  not,  pay  this 
money  ? ” 

“ I can’t,”  said  Sam  faintly. 

“ I’ll  call  again.  Captain  Pogson,”  said  Mr.  Ringwood,  “ I’ll 
call  again  in  one  hour  ; and,  unless  you  come  to  some  arrange- 
ment, you  must  meet  my  friend,  the  Baron  de  Florval,  or  I’ll  post 
you  for  a swindler  and  a coward.”  With  this  he  went  out ; the 


26 


THE  EAIUS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


door  thundered  to  after  him,  and  when  the  clink  of  his  steps 
departing  had  subsided,  I was  enabled  to  look  round  at  Pog. 
The  poor  little  man  had  his  elbows  on  the  marble  table,  his 
head  between  his  hands,  and  looked,  as  one  has  seen  gentlemen 
look  over  a steam- vessel  off  Ramsgate,  the  wind  blowing  re- 
inarkabH  fresh  : at  last  he  fairly  burst  out  ciying. 

“ If  Mrs.  Pogson  heard  of  this,”  said  I,  what  would  be- 
come of  the  ‘Three  Tuns?’”  (for  I wished  to  give  him  a les- 
son). “ If  your  Ma,  who  took  you  eveiy  Sunday  to  meeting, 
should  know  that  her  boy  was  i)a3ing  attention  to  married 
women;  — if  Driuich,  Glauber  and  Co.,  3'our  emplo3'ers,  were 
to  know  that  their  coiihdential  agent  was  a gambler,  and  unfit 
to  be  trusted  with  their  money,  how  long  do  3'ou  think  }’our 
connection  would  last  with  them,  and  who  would  afterwards 
employ  you  ? ” 

To  this  poor  Pog  had  not  a word  of  answer ; but  sat  on  his 
sofa  whimpering  so  bitterly,  that  tlie  sternest  of  moralists 
would  have  relented  towards  him,  and  would  have  been  touched 
by  the  little  wretch’s  tears.  Everything,  too,  must  be  pleaded 
in  excuse  for  this  unfortunate  bagman  : who,  if  he  wished  to 
pass  for  a captain,  had  only  done  so  because  he  had  an  intense 
res[)cct  and  longing  for  rank  : if  he  had  made  love  to  the  Bar- 
oness, had  onl}^  done  so  because  he  was  given  to  understand 
bv  Lord  Byron’s  “Don  Juan”  that  making  love  was  a very 
coi-rect,  natty  thing : and  if  he  had  gambled,  had  only  been 
induced  to  do  so  by  the  bright  e}’es  and  cxam[)le  of  the  Baron 
and  the  Baroness.  O ye  Barons  and  Baronesses  of  England  ! 
if  ye  knew  what  a number  of  small  commoners  arc  daily  occu- 
pied in  studying  3'our  lives,  and  imitating  your  aristocratic 
ways,  how  careful  would  3'e  be  of  3'our  morals,  manners,  and 
conversation  ! , 

M3'  soul  was  filled,  then,  with  a gentle  3'earning  pity  for 
Pogson,  and  revolved  many  plans  for  his  rescue  : none  of  these 
seeming  to  be  practicable,  at  last  we  hit  on  the  veiy  wisest  of 
all,  and  determined  to  apply  for  counsel  to  no  less  a person 
than  jMajor  British. 

A blessing  it  is  to  be  acquainted  with  my  wortly  friend, 
little  Mnjor  British  ; and  heaven,  sure,  it  was  that  put  the 
Major  into  my  head,  when  1 heard  of  this  awkward  scrape  of 
poor  Pog’s.  The  IMajor  is  on  lialf-pay,  and  occupies  a modest 
apartment  au.  qiiatrieme,  in  the  very  hotel  which  Pogson  had 
patronized  at  m3'  suggestion  ; indeed,  I had  chosen  it  from 
Major  British’s  own  peculiar  recommendation. 

There  is  no  better  guide  to  follow  than  such  a character  as 


A CAUTIO^T  TO  TRAVELLERS. 


27 


the  honest  Major,  of  whom  there  are  many  lilcenesses  now 
scattered  over  the  Continent  of  Europe  : men  who  love  to  live 
well,  and  are  forced  to  live  chea[)iy,  and  who  find  the  English 
abroad  a thousand  times  easier,  merrier,  and  more  hospitable 
than  the  same  persons  at  home.  I,  for  my  part,  never  landed 
oil  Calais  pier  without  feeling  that  a load  of  sorrows  was  left 
on  the  other  side  of  the  water ; and  have  alwa3’s  fancied  that 
black  care  ste[)ped  on  board  the  steamer,  along  with  the  cus- 
tom-house officers  at  Gravesend,  and  accompanied  one  to  yon- 
der black  louring  towers  of  London  — so  busy,  so  dismal,  and 
so  vast. 

British  would  have  cut  any  Ibreigner’s  throat  who  ventured 
to  sa}^  so  much,  but  entertained,  no  doubt,  private  sentiments 
of  this  nature  ; for  he  passed  eight  months  of  the  }amr,  reg- 
ularly^, abroad,  with  headquartei’s  at  Paris  (the  garrets  before 
alluded  to),  and  only'  went  to  England  for  the  month’s  shooting, 
on  the  grounds  of  liis  old  coloiu*!.  now  an  old  lord,  of  whose 
acquaintance  the  Major  was  passably  inclined  to  boast. 

lie  loved  and  respected,  like  a good  staunch  Tory'  as  he  is, 
every'  one  of  the  English  nobility  ; gave  himself  certain  little 
airs  of  a man  of  fashion,  that  were  by  no  means  disagreeable  ; 
and  was,  indeed,  kindly  regarded  by  such  English  aristocracy 
as  he  met,  in  his  little  annual  tours  among  the  German  courts, 
ill  Italy'  or  in  Paris,  where  he  never  missed  an  ambassador’s 
night : he  retailed  to  us,  who  didn’t  go,  but  were  delighted  to 
know  all  that  had  taken  place,  accurate  accounts  of  the  dishes, 
the  dresses,  and  the  scandal  which  had  there  fallen  under  his 
observation. 

He  is,  moreover,  one  of  the  most  useful  persons  in  society 
that  can  possibly  be  ; for  besides  being  incorrigibly  duelsorne 
on  his  own  account,  he  is,  for  others,  the  most  acute  and 
peaceable  counsellor  in  the  world,  and  has  carried  more  friends 
through  scrapes  and  prevented  more  deaths  than  any'  member 
of  the  Humane  Society.  British  never  bought  a single  step 
in  the  armyq  as  is  w'ell  known.  In  ’14  he  killed  a celebrated 
French  fire-eater,  who  had  slain  a young  friend  of  his,  and 
living,  as  he  does,  a great  deal  with  y'oung  men  of  pleasure, 
and  good  old  sober  family'  peo})le,  he  is  loved  by  them  both 
and  has  as  welcome  a place  made  for  him  at  a roaring  bacln 
elor’s  supper  at  the  “ Cafe  Anglais,”  as  at  a staid  dowager’s, 
dinner-table  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore.  Such  pleasant  old 
boys  are  veiy  profitable  acquaintances,  let  me  tell  you  ; and 
lucky  is  the  young  man  who  has  one  or  two  such  friends  in  his 
list. 


58 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Hurrying  on  Pogson  in  his  dress,  I conducted  him,  panting, 
up  to  the  Major’s  quatrieme^  where  we  were  cheerfull}’  bidden 
to  come  in.  The  little  gentleman  was  in  his  travelling  jacket, 
and  occupied  in  painting,  elegantly,  one  of  those  natty  pairs  of 
boots  in  which*  he  daily  promenaded  the  Boulevards.  A couple 
of  pairs  of  tough  buff  gloves  had  been  undergoing  some  pipe- 
claying operation  under  his  hands  ; no  man  stepped  out  so 
spick  and  span,  with  a hat  so  nicely  brushed,  with  a stiff  cravat 
tied  so  neatly  under  a fat  little  red  face,  with  a blue  frock-coat 
so  scrupulousl}'  fitted  to  a punchy  little  person,  as  Major  British, 
about  whom  we  have  written  these  two  pages.  Pie  stared 
rather  hardly  at  my  companion,  but  gave  me  a kind  shake  of 
the  hand,  and  we  proceeded  at  once  to  business.  “Major 
British,”  said  I,  “we  want  your  advice  in  regard  to  an  un- 
pleasant affair  which  has  just  occurred  to  my  friend  Pogson.” 

“ Pogson,  take  a chair.” 

“ You  must  know,  sir,  that  Mr.  Pogson,  coming  from  Calais 
the  other  da}*,  encountered,  in  the  diligence,  a very  handsome 
woman.” 

British  winked  at  Pogson,  who,  wretched  as  he  was,  could 
not  help  feeling  pleased. 

“ Mr.  Pogson  was  not  more  pleased  with  this  loveh*  creature 
than  was  she  with  him  ; for,  it  appears,  she  gave  him  her  card, 
invited  him  to  her  house,  where  he  has  been  constantly,  and 
has  been  received  with  much  kindness.” 

“ I see,”  says  British. 

“ Her  husband  the  Baron ” 

Now  it’s  coming,”  said  the  Major,  with  a grin:  “her 
husband  is  jealous,  I suppose,  and  there  is  a talk  of  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne  : my  dear  sir,  you  can’t  refuse  — can’t  refuse.” 

“ It’s  not  that,”  said  Pogson,  wagginghis  head  passionately. 
“ Her  husband  the  Baron  seemed  quite  as  much  taken  with 
Pogson  as  his  lady  was,  and  has  introduced  him  to  some  very 
distingue  friends  of  his  own  set.  Last  night  one  of  the  Baron’s 
friends  gave  a party  in  honor  of  my  friend  Pogson,  who  lost 
forty-eight  pounds  at  cards  before  he  was  made  drunk,  and 
heaven  knows  how  much  after.” 

“Not  a shilling,  by  sacred  heaven! — not  a shilling!” 
yelled  out  Pogson.  “ After  the  supper  I ’ad  such  an  ’eadach’, 
I couldn’t  do  anything  but  fall  asleep  on  the  sofa.” 

“ You  ’ad  such  an  ’eadach’,  sir,”  says  British,  sternly,  who 
piques  himself  on  his  grammar  and  pronunciation,  and  scorns 
a cockney. 

“ Such  a A-eadache,  sir,”  replied  Pogson,  with  much  meekness. 


A CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS. 


29 


“The  unfortunate  man  is  brought  home  at  two  o’clock,  as 
tipsy  as  possible,  dragged  up  stairs,  senseless,  to  bed,  and,  on 
waking,  receives  a visit  from  his  entertainer  of  the  night  before 
' — a lord’s  son,  Major,  a tip-top  fellow,  — who  brings  a couple 
of  bills  that  m3'  friend  Pogson  is  said  to  have  signed.” 

“ Well,  my  dear  fellow,  the  thing’s  quite  simple,  — he  must 
pay  them.” 

“ 1 can’t  pay  them.” 

“ He  can’t  pay  them,”  said  we  both  in  a breath  : “ Pogson 
is  a commercial  traveller,  Avith  thirtv  shillings  a wmek,  and  how 
the  deuce  is  he  to  pay  five  hundred  [lounds?” 

“ A bagman,  sir  ! and  what  right  has  a bagman  to  gamble? 
Gentlemen  gamble,  sir;  tradesmen,  sir,  have  no  business  with 
the  amusements  of  the  gentiy.  What  business  had  3'ou  with 
barons  and  lords’  sons,  sir?  — serve  you  right,  sir.” 

“Sir,”  sa3'S  Pogson,  with  some  dignity,  “merit,  and  not 
birth,  is  the  criterion  of  a man  : I despise  an  hereditaiy  aris- 
tocracy, and  admire  onl}^  Nature’s  gentlemen.  For  my  pai’t,  I 
think  that  a British  merch — ” 

“Hold  3'our  tongue,  sir,”  bounced  out  the  Major,  “and 
don’t  lecture  me  ; don’t  come  to  me,  sir,  with  your  slang  about 
Nature’s  gentlemen  — Nature’s  tomfools,  sir  ! Did  Nature  open 
a cash  account  for  you  at  a banker’s,  sir?  Did  Nature  give 
you  an  education,  sir?  What  do  yon  mean  by  competing  with 
people  to  whom  Nature  has  given  all  these  things?  Stick  to 
3"Our  bags,  Mr.  Pogson,  and  your  bagmen,  and  leave  barons 
and  their  like  to  their  own  wa3’s.” 

“Yes,  but.  Major,”  here  cried  that  faithful  friend,  who 
has  alwa}'s  stood  bA’  Pogson  ; “ they  won’t  leaA'e  him  alone.” 

“ The  honorable  gent  says  I must  fight  if  I don’t  pajq”  whim- 
pered Sam. 

“ What ! fight  Do  you  mean  that  the  honorable  gent, 

as  3'ou  call  him,  will  go  out  wdth  a bagman?” 

“ He  doesn’t  know  Pm  a — Pm  a commercial  man,”  blush- 
ingly  said  Sam : “he  fancies  Pm  a militaiT  gent.” 

The  Major’s  gravity  was  quite  upset  at  this  absurd  notion  : 
and  he  laughed  outrageous^.  “Why,  the  fact  is,  sir,”  said 
I,  “that  my  friend  Pogson,  knoAving  the  value  of  the  title  of 
Captain,  and  being  complimented  by  the  Baroness  on  his  Avar- 
like  appearance,  said,  boldly,  he  was  in  the  arm}^  Pie  only 
assumed  the  rank  in  order  to  dazzle  her  weak  imagination, 
never  fancying  that  there  was  a husband,  and  a circle  of  friends, 
with  whom  he  was  afterwards  to  make  an  acquaintance  ,*  and 
then,  3^ou  know,  it  was  too  late  to  withdraw.” 


30 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


‘‘  A pretty  pickle  you  have  put  3’ourself  in.  Mr.  Pogson,  by 
making  love  to  other  men’s  wives,  and  calling  yourself  names,” 
said  the  Major,  who  was  restored  to  good  humor.  “ And  pray, 
who  is  the  honorable  gent?” 

“ The  Earl  of  Cinqbars’  son,”  sa^'s  Pogson,  “the  Honor- 
able Tom  Ringwood.” 

“ I thought  it  was  some  such  character;  and  the  Baron  is 
the  Baron  de  Florval-Delval  ? ” 

“ The  very  same.” 

“And  his  wife  a black-haired  woman,  with  a prett}"  foot 
and  ankle  ; calls  herself  Athenais;  and  is  alwa}^s  talking  about 
her  trente-deux  ans?  Wh}’,  sir,  that  woman  was  an  actress  on 
the  Boulevard,  when  we  were  here  in  ’15.  She’s  no  more  his  wife 
than  I am.  Delval’s  name  is  Chicot.  The  woman  is  always 
travelling  between  London  and  Paris : I saw  she  was  hooking 
you  at  Calais  ; she  has  hooked  ten  men,  in  the  course  of  the 
last  two  3'cars,  in  this  veiy  way.  She  lent  }'ou  mone}^  didn’t 
she?  ” Yes.”  And  she  leans  on  }^our  shoulder,  and  whis- 
pers, ‘ Pla}’  half  for  me,’  and  somebody  wins  it,  and  the  poor 
thing  is  as  sorry  as  you  are,  and  her  husband  storms  and  rages, 
and  insists  on  double  stakes  ; and  she  leans  over  your  shoulder 
again,  and  tells  every  card  in  your  hand  to  3'our  adversaiy,  and 
that’s  the  way  it’s  done,  Mr.  Pogson.” 

“ I’ve  been  ’etc/,  I see  1 ’ave,”  said  Pogson,  very  humbl}'. 

“ Well,  sir,”  said  the  IMajor,  “in  consideration,  not  of 3^011, 
sir  — for,  give  me  leave  to  tell  3*011,  Mr.  Pogson,  that  3*011  are 
a pitiful  little  scoundrel  — in  consideration  for  1113*  Lord  Cinq- 
bars, sir,  with  whom,  I am  proud  to  sa3*,  I am  intimate,”  (the 
IMajor  dearh*  loved  a lord,  and  was,  bv  his  own  showing,  ac- 
quainted with  half  the  peerage,)  “ I will  aid  3*011  in  this  affair. 
Your  cursed  vanity,  sir,  and  want  of  principle,  has  set  you,  in 
the  first  [ilace,  intriguing  with  other  men’s  wives;  and  if  3*011 
had  been  shot  for  your  pains,  a bullet  would  have  only  served 
yon  right,  sir.  You  must  go  about  as  an  impostor,  sir,  in 
societv  ; and  3*011  pav  richlv  for  vour  swindling,  sir,  b3^  being 
swindled  vonrself:  but,  as  I think  vonr  punishment  has  been 
ah-eady  prettv  severe,  I shall  do  1113*  best,  out  of  regard  for  m3^ 
IViend,  Lord  Cinqbars,  to  [irevent  the  matter  going  any  farther  ; 
and  I recommend  yon  to  leave  Paris  without  delav.  Now  let 
me  wish  von  a good  morning.”  — Wherewith  British  made  a 
majestic  bow,  and  began  giving  the  last  touch  to  his  varnished 
boots. 

We  departed : poor  Sam  perfectly  silent  and  chapfallen  ; 
and  I meditating  on  the  wisdom  of  the  half-pa3*  philosopher. 


A CAUTIOX  TO  TRAVELLERS. 


31 


and  wondering  what  means  he  would  employ  to  rescue  Pogson 
from  his  fate. 

What  these  means  were  I know  not ; but  Mr.  Ringwood  did 
not  make  his  appearance  at  six  ; and,  at  eight,  a letter  arrived 
for  “ Mr.  Pogson,  commei-cial  traveller,”  &c.  &c.  It  was  blank 
inside,  but  contained  his  two  bills.  Mi-.  Ringwood  left  town, 
almost  immediately,  for  V^iemia  ; nor  did  the  Major  explain 
the  circumstances  which  caused  his  departure  ; but  he  muttered 
something  about  “ knew  some  of  his  old  tricks,”  .“threatened 
police,  and  made  him  disgorge  directly.” 

Mr.  Ringwood  is,  as  }'et,  young  at  his  trade  ; and  1 have 
often  thought  it  was  very  green  of  him  to  give  up  the  bills 
to  the  Major,  who,  certainly,  would  never  have  pressed  the 
matter  before  the  police,  out  of  respect  for  his  friend,  Lord 
Cinqbars. 


THE  FETES  OF  JULY. 


IN  A LETTER  TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  “BUNGAY  BEACON.” 


Paris,  July  30th,  1839. 

We  have  arrived  here  just  in  time  for  the  fetes  of  July.  — ■ 
You  have  read,  no  doubt,  of  that  glorious  revolution  which 
took  place  here  nine  years  ago,  and  which  is  now  com- 
memorated annuall}’,  in  a prett}^  facetious  manner,  by  gun- 
firing, student-processions,  pole-climbing-for-silver-spoows,  gold- 
watches  and  legs-of-mutton,  monarchical  orations,  and  what  not, 
and  sanctioned,  moreover,  by  Chamber-of-Deputies,  with  a grant 
of  a couple  of  hundred  thousand  francs  to  defray  the  expenses 
of  all  the  crackers,  gun-firings,  and  legs-of-mutton  aforesaid. 
There  is  a new  fountain  in  the  Place  Louis  Quinze,  otherwise 
called  the  Place  Louis  Seize,  or  else  the  Place  de  la  Revolution, 
or  else  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  (who  can  sa}'  why?)  — which, 
I am  told,  is  to  run  bad  wine  during  certain  hours  to-morrow, 
and  there  would  have  been  a review  of  the  National  Guards 
and  the  Line  — onlj’,  since  the  Fieschi  business,  reviews  are 
no  joke,  and  so  this  latter  part  of  the  festivit}"  has  been  dis- 
continued. 

Do  you  not  laugh,  O Pharos  of  Bungay,  at  the  continuance  of 
a humbug  such  as  this?  — at  the  humbugging  anniversary  of  a 
humbug?  The  King  of  the  Barricades  is,  next  to  the  Emperor 
Nicholas,  the  most  absolute  Sovereign  in  Europe  ; }'et  there  is 
not  in  the  whole  of  this  fair  kingdom  of  France  a single  man 
who  cares  sixpence  about  him,  or  his  dynast}' : except,  mayhap, 
a few  hangers-on  at  the  Chateau,  who  eat  his  dinners,  and  put 
their  hands  in  his  purse.  The  feeling  of  loyalty  is  as  dead  as  old 
Charles  the  Tenth ; the  Chambers  have  been  laughed  at,  the 
country  has  been  laughed  at,  all  the  successive  ministries  have 
been  laughed  at  (and  you  know  who  is  the  wag  that  has  amused 


THE  FETES  OF  JULY. 


33 


himself  with  them  all)  ; and,  behold,  here  come  three  days  at  the 
end  of  J11I3',  and  cannons  think  it  necessaiy  to  fire  off,  squibs  and 
crackers  to  blaze  and  fizz,  fountains  to  run  wine,  kings  to  make 
speeches,  and  subjects  to  crawl  up  greas}^  rnats-de-cocagne  in 
token  of  gratitude  and  I'ejouissance  jjubliqiie  ! — M3"  dear  sir,  in 
their  aptitude  to  swallow,  to  utter,  to  enact  humbugs,  these 
French  [)cople,  from  Majest3"  downwards,  beat  all  the  other 
nations  of  this  earth.  In  looking  at  these  men,  their  manners, 
dresses,  opinions,  politics,  actions,  history,  it  is  impossible  to 
preserve  a grave  countenance  ; instead  of  having  Carlyle  to  write 
a History  of  the  French  Revolution,  1 often  think  it  should  be 
handed  over  to  Dickens  or  Theodore  Hook  : and  oh  ! where  is 
the  Rabelais  to  be  the  faithful  historian  of  the  last  phase  of  the 
Revolution  — the  last  glorious  nine  3"ears  of  which  we  are  now 
commemorating  the  last  glorious  three  days  ? 

1 had  made  a vow  not  to  say  a syllable  on  the  subject, 
although  I have  seen,  with  my  neighljors,  all  the  gingerbread 
stalls  down  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  some  of  the  “ catafalques” 
erected  to  the  memory  of  the  heroes  of  JUI3',  where  the  students 
and  others,  not  connected  j)er8onall3"  with  the  victims,  and  not 
naving  in  the  least  profited  by  their  deaths,  come  and  weep  ; 
but  the  grief  shown  on  the  first  da3"  is  quite  as  absurd  and 
fictitious  as  the  jo3"  exhibited  on  the  last.  The  subject  is  one 
which  admits  of  much  wholesome  reflection  and  food  for  mirth ; 
and,  besides,  is  so  richty  treated  by  the  French  themselves, 
that  it  would  be  a sin  and  a shame  to  pass  it  over.  Allow  me 
to  have  the  honor  of  translating,  for  your  edification,  an  account 
of  the  first  day’s  proceedings  — it  is  might3"  amusing,  to  my 
thinking. 


“CELEBKATION  OF  THE  DAYS  OF  JULY. 

“To-day  (Saturda3"),  funeral  ceremonies,  in  honor  of  the 
victims  of  July,  were  held  in  the  various  edifices  consecrated 
to  public  worship. 

“ These  edifices,  with  the  exception  of  some  churches 
(especiall3"  that  of  the  Petits-Peres),  were  uniforml3^  hung  with 
black  on  the  outside  ; the  hangings  bore  011I3"  this  inscription  : 
27,  28,  29  July,  1830  — surrounded  by  a wreath  of  oak- 
leaves. 

“ In  the  interior  of  the  Catholic  churches,  it  had  onl3"  been 
thought  proper  to  dress  little  catafalques^  as  for  burials  of  the 
third  and  fourth  class.  Very  few  clerg3"  attended ; but  a con- 
siderable number  of  the  National  Guard. 

“The  S3"nagogue  of  the  Israelites  was  entirely  hung  with 

3 


34 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


black  ; and  a great  concourse  of  people  attended.  The  service 
was  performed  with  the  greatest  pomp. 

‘ ‘ In  the  Protestant  temples  there  was  likewise  a yery  full 
attendance  : apologetical  discourses  on  the  Revolution  of  July 
were  pronounced  by  the  pastors. 

“ The  absence  of  M.  de  Quelen  (Archbishop  of  Paris),  and 
of  many  members  of  the  superior  clergy,  was  remarked  at  Notre 
Dame. 

“ The  civil  authorities  attended  service  in  their  several 
districts. 

“ The  poles,  ornamented  with  tri-colored  flags,  which  for- 
merly were  placed  on  Notre  Dame,  were,  it  was  remarked, 
suppressed.  The  flags  on  the  Pont  Neuf  were,  during  the 
ceremony,  only  half-mast  high,  and  covered  with  crape.” 

Et  csetera,  et  csetera,  et  caetera. 

‘ ‘ The  tombs  of  the  Louvre  were  covered  with  black  hang- 
ings, and  adorned  with  tri-colored  flags.  In  front  and  in  the 
middle  was  erected  an  expiatory  monument  of  a pj’ramidical 
shape,  and  surmounted  by  a funeral  vase. 

“ These  tombs  were  guarded  by  the  Municipal  Guard,  the 
Troops  of  the  Line,  the  Sergens  de  Ville  {town  patrol)^ 
AND  A Brigade  of  Agents  of  Police  in  plain  clothes, 
under  the  orders  of  peace-officer  Vassal. 

“ Between  eleven  and  twelve  o’clock,  some  }'oung  men,  to 
the  number  of  400  or  500,  assembled  on  the  Place  de  la  Bourse, 
one  of  them  bearing  a tri-colored  banner  with  an  inscription, 

‘ To  THE  Manes  of  July  : ’ ranging  themselves  in  order,  they 
marched  five  abreast  to  the  Marche  des  Innocens.  On  their 
arrival,  the  Municipal  Guards  of  the  Halle  aux  Draps,  where 
the  post  had  been  doubled,  issued  out  without  arms,  and  the 
town-sergeants  placed  themselves  before  the  market  to  prevent 
the  entry  of  the  procession.  The  young  men  passed  in  perfect 
order,  and  without  sayi!ig  a word  — 011I3'  lifting  their  hats  as 
fthe}^  defiled  before  the  tombs.  AVhen  the}^  arrived  at  the 
Louvre  the}-  found  the  gates  shut,  and  the  garden  evacuated. 
The  troops  were  under  arms,  and  formed  in  battalion. 

“After  the  passage  of  the  procession,  the  Garden  was 
again  open  to  the  public.” 

And  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  first  day. 

There’s  nothing  serious  in  mortality : is  there,  from  the 
beginning  of  this  account  to  the  end  thereof,  aught  but  sheer, 
open,  monstrous,  undisguised  humbug?  I said,  before,  that 
3'ou  should  have  a historv  of  these  people  by  Dickens  or  Theo- 
dore Hook,  but  there  is  little  need  of  professed  wags  ; — do  not 


THE  FETES  OF  JULY. 


the  men  write  their  own  tale  with  an  admirable  Sancho-like 
gravity  and  naivete,  which  one  could  not  desire  improved? 
How  good  is  that  touch  of  sly  indignation  about  the  little  cata- 
falques! how  rich  the  contrast  presented  by  the  economy  of  the 
Catholics  to  the  splendid  disregard  of  expense  exhibited  by  the 
devout  Jews  ! and  how  touching  the  “ apologetical  discourses  on 
the  Revolution,”  delivered  by  the  Protestant  pastors  ! Fanc}- 
the  profound  allliction  of  the  Gardes  Municipanx,  the  Sergens 
de  Ville,  the  police  agents  in  plain  clothes,  and  the  troops  with 
fixed  bayonets,  sobbing  round  the  “ expiatory  monuments  of  a 
pyramidical  shape,  surmounted  by  funeral  vases,”  and  com- 
pelled, by  sad  dnt}',  to  fire  into  the  public  who  might  wish  to 
indulge  in  the  same  woe  ! O “ manes  of  July  ! ” (the  phrase  is 
pretty  and  grammatical)  why  did  you  with  sharp  bullets  break 
those  Louvre  windows?  Why  did  3'ou  bayonet  red-coated 
Swiss  behind  that  fair  white  facade,  and,  braving  cannon, 
musket,  sabre,  perspective  guillotine,  burst  yonder  bronze  gates, 
rush  through  that  peaceful  picture-galleiy,  and  hurl  royalty, 
loj’alt}’,  and  a thousand  }’ears  of  Kings,  head-over-heels  out  of 
3’onder  Tuileries’  windows  ? 

It  is,  3’ou  will  allow,  a little  difficult  to  sa}’ : — there  is, 
however,  one  benefit  that  the  countiy  has  gained  (as  for  liberty 
of  press,  or  person,  diminished  taxation,  a juster  representa- 
tion, who  ever  thinks  of  them?)  — one  benefit  they  liave  gained, 
or  nearl}’  — abolition  de  la  peine-de-mort  pour  delit  politique : no 
more  wicked  guillotining  for  revolutions.  A Frenchman  must 
have  his  revolution  — it  is  his  nature  to  knock  down  omnibuses 
in  the  street,  and  across  them  to  fire  at  troops  of  the  line  — it 
is  a sin  to  balk  it.  Did  not  the  King  send  off  Revolutionary 
Prince  Napoleon  in  a coach-and-four?  Did  not  the  juiy,  before 
the  face  of  God  and  Justice,  proclaim  Revolutionary  Colonel 
Vaudre}'  not  guilt}"?  — One  may  hope,  soon,  that  if  a man 
shows  decent  courage  and  energy  in  half  a dozen  emeutes^  he 
will  get  promotion  and  a premium. 

I do  not  (although,  perhaps,  partial  to  the  subject,)  want 
to  talk  more  nonsense  than  the  occasion  warrants,  and  will 
pray  you  to  cast  your  eyes  over  the  following  anecdote,  that  is 
now  going  the  round  of  the  papers,  and  respects  the  commu- 
tation of  the  punishment  of  that  wretched,  fool-hardy  Barbes, 
who,  on  his  trial,  seemed  to  iiiAute  the  penalty  which  has  just 
been  remitted  to  him.  You  recollect  the  braggart’s  speech: 
“ When  the  Indian  falls  into  the  power  of  the  enemy,  he  knows 
the  fate  that  awaits  him,  and  submits  his  head  to  the  knife : — 
I am  the  Indian  ! ” 


36 


THE  PARTS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


uw^ell— ” 

“ M.  Hugo  was  at  the  Opera  on  the  night  the  sentence  of 
the  Court  of  Peers,  condemning  Barbes  to  death,  was  pub- 
lished. The  great  poet  composed  the  following  verses  : — 

‘ Par  votre  ange  envolee,  ainsi  qu’une  colorabe, 

Par  le  royal  enfant,  doux  et  frele  roseaii, 

Grace  encore  une  fois ! Grace  an  nom  de  la  tombe  ! 

Grace  au  nom  du  ber9eau ! ’ * 

‘‘M.  Victor  Hugo  wrote  the  lines  out  instantly  on  a sheet 
of  paper,  which  he  folded,  and  simpl}’  despatched  them  to  the 
King  of  the  French  by  the  penn3^-post. 

“ That  truly  is  a noble  voice,  which  can  at  all  hours  thus 
speak  to  the  throne.  Poetr}’,  in  old  days',  was  called  the  lan- 
guage of  the  Cods  — it  is  better  named  now  — it  is  the  lan- 
guage of  the  Kings. 

“ But  the  clemeucy  of  the  King  had  anticipated  the  letter  of 
the  Poet.  His  Majesty  had  signed  the  commutation  of  Barbas, 
while  the  poet  was  still  writing. 

‘ ‘ Louis  Philippe  replied  to  the  author  of  ‘ Ruy  Bias  ’ most 
graciously,  that  he  had  alread}’  subscribed  to  a wish  so  noble, 
and  that  the  verses  had  only  confirmed  his  previous  disposition 
to  mercy.” 

Now  in  countries  where  fools  most  abound,  did  one  ever 
read  of  more  monstrous,  palpable  folly  ? In  an}"  country,  save 
this,  would  a poet  who  chose  to  write  four  crack-brained  verses, 
comparing  an  angel  to  a dove,  and  a little  boy  to  a reed,  and 
calling  upon  the  chief  magistrate,  in  the  name  of  the  angel, 
or  dove  (the  Princess  Maiy),  in  her  tomb,  and  the  little  infant 
in  his  cradle,  to  spare  a criminal,  have  received  a “gracious 
answer”  to  his  nonsense?  Would  he  have  ever  despatched 
the  nonsense  ? and  would  any  journalist  have  been  silly  enough 
to  talk  of  “ the  noble  voice  that  could  thus  speak  to  the  throne,” 
and  the  noble  throne  that  could  return  such  a noble  answer 
to  the  noble  voice?  You  get  nothing  done  here  gravely  and 
decently.  Tawdry  stage  tricks  are  played,  and  braggadocio 
claptraps  uttered,  on  ever}"  occasion,  however  sacred  or  solemn  : 
in  the  face  of  death,  as  by  Barbes  with  his  hideous  Indian 
metaphor ; in  the  teeth  of  reason,  as  by  M.  Victor  Hugo  with 

♦ Translated  for  the  benefit  of  country  gentlemen  : — 

“By  your  angel  flown  away  just  like  a dove, 

By  the  royal  infant,  that  frail  and  tender  reed. 

Pardon  yet  once  more ! Pardon  in  the  name  of  the  tomb  1 
Pardon  in  the  name  of  the  cradle  ! ” 


THE  FETES  OF  JULY. 


37 


his  twopenny-post  poetry  ; and  of  justice,  as  by  the  King’s  ab- 
surd reply  to  this  absurd  demand  ! Suppose  the  Count  of  Paris 
to  be  twenty  times  a reed,  and  the  Princess  Maiy  a host  of 
angels,  is  that  any  reason  why  the  law  should  not  have  its^ 
course?  Justice  is  the  God  of  our  lower  world,  our  great 
omnipresent  guardian  : as  such  it  moves,  or  should  move  on 
majestic,  awful,  irresistible,  having  no  passions  — like  a God  : 
but,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  path  across  which  it  is  to  pass,  lo  ! 
M.  Victor  Hugo  trips  forward,  smirking,  and  says,  O divine 
Justice  ! I will  trouble  you  to  listen  to  the  following  trifling 
effusion  of  mine  : — 

Par  votre  ange  envol^e,  ainsi  qu’une,”  ^c. 

Awful  Justice  stops,  and,  bowing  gravely,  listens  toM.  Hugo’s 
verses,  and,  with  true  French  politeness,  says,  “Mon cher  Mon- 
sieur, these  verses  are  charming,  ravissans^  delicieux^  and,  com- 
ing from  such  a celehrite  litteraire  as  yourself,  shall  meet  with 
every  possible  attention  — in  fact,  had  I required  anything 
to  confirm  m}^  own  previous  opinions,  this  charming  poem 
would  have  done  so.  Bon  jour,  mon  cher  Monsieur  Hugo, 
au  revoir  ! ” — and  they  part : — Justice  taking  off  his  hat  and 
bowing,  and  the  author  of  “ Ruy  Bias”  quite  convinced  that 
he  has  been  treating  with  him  d’ egal  en  egal.  I can  hardly 
bring  my  mind  to  fancy  that  anything  is  serious  in  France  — 
it  seems  to  be  all  rant,  tinsel,  and  stage-play.  Sham  libert}^ 
sham  monarch}',  sham  glory,  sham  justice,  — ou  diahle  done  la 
verite  va-t-elle  se  hicher  ? 

The  last  rocket  of  the  fete  of  July  has  just  mounted,  ex- 
ploded, made  a portentous  bang,  and  emitted  a gorgeous  show 
of  blue  lights,  and  then  (like  main'  reputations)  disappeared 
totall}' : the  hundredth  gun  on  the  Invalid  terrace  has  uttered 
its  last  roar  — and  a great  comfort  it  is  for  e}'es  and  ears  that 
the  festival  is  over.  We  shall  be  able  to  go  about  our  eveij- 
day  business  again,  and  not  be  hustled  by  the  gendarmes  or  the 
crowd. 

The  sight  which  I have  just  come  away  from  is  as  brilliant, 
happy,  and  beautiful  as  can  be  conceived  ; and  if  you  want  to 
see  French  people  to  the  greatest  advantage,  3 011  should  go 
to  a festival  like  this,  where  their  manners,  and  innocent  ga3'ety, 
show  a very  pleasing  contrast  to  the  coarse  and  vulgar  hilarit}' 
which  the  same  class  would  exhibit  in  our  own  countr}'  — at 
Epsom  racecourse ,*for  instance,  or  Greenwich  Fair.  The  great- 
est noise  that  I heard  was  that  of  a compan}'  of  joll}^  villagers 


38 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOR. 


from  a place  In  the  neighborhood  of  Paris,  who,  as  soon  as  the 
fireworks  were  over,  formed  themselves  into  a line,  three  or 
four  abreast,  and  so  marched  singing  home.  As  for  the  fire- 
works, squibs  and  crackers  are  veiy  hard  to  describe,  and  very 
little  was  to  be  seen  of  them  : to  me,  the  prettiest  sight  was 
the  vast,  orderl}’,  happy  crowd,  the  number  of  children,  and  the 
extraordinary  care  and  kindness  of  the  parents  towards  these 
little  creatures.  It  does  one  good  to  see  honest,  heavy  epiciers^ 
fathers  of  families,  pla^dng  with  them  in  the  Tuileries,  or,  as 
to-night,  bearing  them  stoutly  on  their  shoulders,  through  many 
long  hours,  in  order  that  the  little  ones  too  ma}Aiave  their  share 
of  the  fun.  John  Bull,  I fear,  is  more  selfish  : he  does  not  take 
Mrs.  Bull  to  the  public-house  ; but  leaves  her,  for  the  most 
part,  to  take  care  of  the  children  at  home. 

The  fete,  then,  is  over ; the  pompous  black  pyramid  at  the 
Louvre  is  onl}-  a skeleton  now  ; all  the  flags  have  been  miracu- 
lously whisked  away  during  the  night,  and  the  fine  chandeliers 
which  glittered  down  the  Champs  El}’sees  for  full  half  a mile, 
have  been  consigned  to  their  dens  and  darkness.  Will  thej^ 
ever  be  reproduced  for  other  celebrations  of  the  glorious  29th 
of  July  ? — I think  not ; the  Government  which  vowed  that  there 
should  be  no  more  persecutions  of  the  press,  was,  on  that  very 
29th,  seizing  a Legitimist  paper,  for  some  real  or  fancied  offence 
against  it : it  had  seized,  and  was  seizing  daily,  numbers  of 
persons  merely  suspected  of  being  disaffected  (and  you  may 
fancy  how  libert}^  is  understood,  when  some  of  these  prisoners, 
the  other  day,  on  coming  to  trial,  were  found  guilty  and  sen- 
tenced to  one  day’s  imprisonment,  after  thirty-six  days’  detention 
on  suspicion) . I think  the  Government  which  follows  such  a 
system,  cannot  be  very  anxious  about  any  farther  revolutionary 
fetes,  and  that  the  Chamber  may  reasonably  refuse  to  vote  more 
money  for  them.  Wh}’  should  men  be  so  might}'  proud  of  hav- 
ing, on  a certain  day,  cut  a certain  number  of  their  fellow- 
countrymen’s  throats  ? The  Guards  and  the  Line  emplo}^ed  this 
time  nine  years  did  no  more  than  those  who  cannonaded  the 
starving  L}^onnese,  or  bayoneted  the  luckless  inhabitants  of 
the  Rue  Transnounain  : — they  did  but  fulfil  the  soldier’s  hon- 
orable dut}" : — his  superiors  bid  him  kill  and  he  killeth  : — per- 
haps, had  he  gone  to  his  work  with  a little  more  heart,  the 
result  would  have  been  different,  and  then  — would  the  conquer- 
ing party  have  been  justified  in  annually  rejoicing  over  the 
conquered?  Would  we  have  thought  Charles  X.  justified  in 
causing  fireworks  to  be  blazed,  and  concerns  to  be  sung,  and 
speeches  to  be  spouted,  in  commemoration  of  his  victory  over 


THE  FETES  OF  JULY. 


39 


his  slaughtered  coimtiymen  ? — I wish  for  my  part  they  would 
allow  the  people  to  go  about  their  business  as  on  the  other  362 
days  of  the  .year,  and  leave  the  Champs  Elysees  free  for  the 
omnibuses  to  run,  and  the  Tuileries  in  quiet,  so  that  the  nurse- 
maids might  come  as  usual,  and  the  newspapers  be  read  for  a 
halfpemi}^  apiece. 

Shall  I trouble  3^011  with  an  account  of  the  speculations  of 
tliese  latter,  and  the  state  of  the  parties  which  tiny  represent? 
The  complication  is  not  a little  curious,  and  ma3Hbrm,  perhaps, 
a subject  of  graver  disquisition.  The  July  fetes  occupjq  as 
3' on  ma3"  imagine,  a considerable  part  of  their  columns  just 
now,  and  it  is  amusing  to  follow  them  one  one  ; to  read 
Tweedledum’s  praise,  and  Tweedledee’s  indignation  — to  read, 
in  the  Dehats  how  the  King  was  received  with  shouts  and  loyal 
vivats  — in  the  Nation^  how  not  a tongue  was  wagged  in  his 
praise,  but,  on  the  instant  of  his  dei^arture,  how  the  people- 
called  for  the  “ Marseillaise”  and  applauded  that.  — But  best 
sa3'  no  more  about  the  fete.  The  Legitimists  were  alwa3's  in- 
dignant at  it.  The  high  Philippist  part3"  sneers  at  and  despises 
it ; the  Republicans  hate  it : it  seems  a joke  against  them. 
Wh3^  continue  it?  — If  there  be  anything  sacred  in  the  name 
and  idea  of  loyalty,  wly  renew  this  fete?  It  01113^  shows  how 
a rightful  monarch  was  hurled  from  his  throne,  and  a dexterous 
usurper  stole  his  precious  diadem.  If  there  be  anything  noble 
in  the  memory  of  a da3q  when  citizens,  unused  to  war,  rose 
against  practised  veterans,  and,  armed  with  the  strength  of 
their  cause,  overthi'ew  them,  wly^  speak  of  it  now?  or  renew 
the  bitter  recollections  of  the  bootless  struggle  and  victory? 
O Lafa3^tte  ! O hero  of  two  worlds  ! O accomplished  Crom- 
well Grandison  ! 3^011  have  to  answer  for  more  than  any  mor- 
tal man  wJio  has  played  a part  in  histoiy : two  republics  and 
one  monarchy  does  the  world  owe  to  you ; and  especiall3^ 
grateful  should  your  country  be  to  you.  Did  you  not,  in  ’90, 
make  clear  the  path  for  honest  Robespierre,  and  in  ’30,  pre- 
pare the  way  for  — 

[The  Editor  of  the  Bungay  Beacon  would  insert  no  more 
of  this  letter,  which  is,  therefore,  for  ever  lost  to  the  public.] 


ON  THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING: 


WITH  APPROPRIATE  ANECDOTES,  ILLUSTRATIONS, 
AND  PHILOSOPHICAL  DISQUISITIONS. 

IN  A LETTER  TO  MR.  MACGILP,  OF  LONDON. 


The  three  collections  of  pictures  at  the  Louvre,  the  Luxem- 
bourg, and  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts,  contain  a number  of 
specimens  of  French  art,  since  its  commencement  almost,  and 
give  the  stranger  a pretty  fair  opportunity  to  stud}^  and  appre- 
ciate the  school.  The  French  list  of  painters  contains  some 
veiy  good  names  — no  very  great  ones,  except  Poussin  (unless 
the  admirers  of  Claude  choose  to  rank  him  among  great  paint- 
ers), — and  I think  the  school  was  never  in  so  flourishing  a 
condition  as  it  is  at  the  present  da}'.  They  sa}"  there  are  three 
thousand  artists  in  this  tow'ii  alone  : of  these  a handsome  mi- 
nority paint  not  merel}'  tolerably,  but  well  understand  their  busi- 
ness : draw  the  figure  accurately  ; sketch  with  cleverness ; and 
paint  portraits,  churches,  or  restaurateurs’  shops,  in  a decent 
manner. 

To  account  for  a superiority  over  England  — which,  I think, 
as  regards  art,  is  incontestable  — it  must  be  remembered  that 
the  painter’s  trade,  in  France,  is  a very  good  one  ; better  ap- 
preciated, better  understood,  and,  generally,  far  better  paid 
than  with  us.  There  are  a dozen  excellent  schools  which  a lad 
may  enter  here,  and,  under  the  e}'e  of  a practised  master,  learn 
the  apprenticeship  of  his  art  at  an  expense  of  about  ten  pounds 
a vear.  In  England  there  is  no  school  except  the  Academy, 
unless  the  student  can  aflbrd  to  pay  a very  large  sum,  and  place 
himself  under  the  tuition  of  some  particular  artist.  Here,^  a 
voung  man,  for  his  ten  pounds,  has  all  sorts  of  accessory  in- 
struction, models,  &c.  ; and  has  further,  and  for  nothing,  num- 
berless incitements  to  study  his  profession  which  are  not  to  be 
found  in  England  : — the  ‘streets  are  filled  with  picture-shops, 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING. 


41 


the  people  themselves  are  pictures  walking  about ; the  churches, 
theatres,  eating-houses,  concert-rooms  are  covered  with  pic- 
tures : Nature  itself  is  inclined  more  kindly  to  him,  for  the  sk}^ 
is  a thousand  times  more  bright  and  beautiful,  and  the  sun 
shines  for  the  greater  part  of  the  3'ear.  Add  to  this,  incite- 
ments more  selfish,  but  quite  as  powerful:  a French  artist  is 
paid  veiy  handsomel}' ; for  live  hundred  a 3'ear  is  much  where 
all  are  poor ; and  has  a rank  in  societ3’  rather  above  his  merits 
than  below  them,  being  caressed  by  hosts  and  hostesses  in 
places  where  titles  are  laughed  at  and  a baron  is  thought  of  no 
more  account  than  a banker’s  clerk. 

The  life  of  the  3'oung  artist  here  is  the  easiest,  merriest, 
dirtiest  existence  possible.  He  comes  to  Paris,  probably  at 
sixteen,  from  his  province  ; his  parents  settle  fort3’  pounds  a 
3'ear  on  him,  and  pa3'  his  master ; he  establishes  himself  in 
the  Pa3's  Latin,  or  in  the  new  quarter  of  Notre  Dame  de 
Lorette  (which  is  quite  peopled  with  painters)  ; he  arrives  at 
his  atelier  at  a tolerablv  early  hour,  and  labors  among  a score 
of  companions  as  merry  and  poor  as  himself.  Each  gentleman 
has  his  favorite  tobacco-pipe  ; and  the  pictures  are  painted  in 
the  midst  of  a cloud  of  smoke,  and  a din  of  puns  and  choice 
French  slang,  and  a roar  of  choruses,  of  which  no  one  can  form 
an  idea  who  has  not  been  present  at  such  an  assembly. 

You  see  here  eveiy  variet3"  of  coiffure  that  has  ever  been 
known.  Some  3'oung  men  of  genius  have  ringlets  hanging  over 
their  shoulders  — 3'ou  ma3'  smell  the  tobacco  with  which  the3'  are 
scented  across  the  street ; some  have  straight  locks,  black,  oil3', 
and  redundant ; some  have  toupets  in  the  famous  Louis-Philippe 
fashion ; some  are  cropped  close  ; some  have  adopted  the  pres- 
ent mode  — which  he  who  would  follow  must,  in  order  to  do 
so,  part  his  hair  in  the  middle,  grease  it  with  grease,  and  gum 
it  with  gum,  and  iron  it  flat  down  over  his  ears  ; when  arrived 
at  the  ears,  3'ou  take  the  tongs  and  make  a couple  of  ranges  of 
curls  close  round  the  whole  head,  — such  curls  as  you  may  see 
under  a gilt  three-cornered  hat,  and  in  her  Britannic  Majesty’s 
coachman’s  state  wig. 

This  is  the  last  fashion.  As  for  the  beards,  there  is  no  end 
of  them  ; all  m3'  friends  the  artists  have  beards  who  can  raise 
them  ; and  Nature,  though  she  has  rather  stinted  the  bodies  and 
limbs  of  the  French  nation,  has  been  very  liberal  to  them  of 
hair,  as  3'Ou  ma3'  see  by  the  following  specimen.*  Fancy  these 
heads  and  beards  under  all  sorts  of  caps  — Chinese  caps,  Man- 
darin caps,  Greek  skull-caps,  English  jocke3’-caps,  Russian  or 

* This  refers  to  an  illustrated  edition  of  the  work. 


42 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Kuzzilbash  caps,  Middle-age  caps  (such  as  are  called,  in 
lieraldiy,  caps  of  maintenance) , Spanish  nets,  and  striped 
worsted  nightcaps.  Fanc}'  all  the  jackets  you  have  ever  seen, 
and  3'ou  have  before  you,  as  well  as  pen  can  describe,  the  cos- 
tumes of  these  indescribable  Frenchmen. 

In  this  compaii}’  and  costume  the  French  student  of  art 
passes  his  daA’s  and  acquires  knowledge  ; how  he  passes  his 
evenings,  at  what  theatres,  at  what  gninguettes^  in  compan}'  with 
what  seducing  little  milliner,  there  is  no  need  to  sa}’' ; but  I 
knew  one  who  pawned  his  coat  to  go  to  a carnival  ball,  and 
walked  abroad  verv  cheerfull}'  in  his  blouse  for  six  weeks,  until 
he  could  redeem  the  absent  garment. 

These  young  men  (together  with  the  students  of  sciences) 
comport  themselves  towards  the  sober  citizen  pretty  much  as 
the  German towards  the  p/nlister,  or  as  the  militaiy  man, 
during  the  empire,  did  to  iha  pe kin  : — from  the  height  of  their 
povert}’  the}'  look  down  upon  him  with  the  greatest  imaginable 
scorn  — a scorn,  I think,  by  which  the  citizen  seems  dazzled, 
for  his  respect  for  the  arts  is  intense.  The  case  is  very  dif- 
ferent in  England,  where  a grocer’s  daughter  would  think  she 
made  a misalliance  b}'  marrying  a painter,  and  where  a literaiy 
man  (in  spite  of  all  we  can  sa}'  against  it)  ranks  below  that 
class  of  gentr}-  com|)osed  of  the  apothecaiy,  the  attorne}',  the 
wine-merchant,  whose  t)ositions,  in  country  towns  at  least,  are 
so  equivocal.  As,  for  instance,  my  friend  the  Rev.  James 
Asterisk,  who  has  an  undeniable  pedigree,  a paternal  estate, 
and  a living  to  boot,  once  dined  in  AVarwickshire,  in  company 
with  several  squires  and  parsons  of  that  enlightened  count}'. 
Asterisk,  as  usual,  made  himself  extraordinarily  agreeable  at 
dinner,  and  delighted  all  present  with  his  learning  and  wit. 
"‘Who  is  that  monstrous  [)leasant  fellow?”  said  one  of  the 
squires.  “Don’t  you  know?”  replied  another.  “It’s  As- 
terisk, the  author  of  so-and-so,  and  a famous  contributor  to 
' such  and  such  a magazine.”  Good  heavens  ! ” said  the  squire, 
quite  horrified!  "‘a  literary  man!  I thought  he  had  been  a 
gentleman  ! ” 

Another  instance  : M.  Guizot,  when  he  was  Minister  here, 
had  the  grand  hotel  of  the  Alinistiy.  and  gave  entertainments 
to  all  the  great  de  par  le  monde^  as  Brantome  says,  and  enter- 
tained them  in  a proper  ministerial  magnificence.  The  splendid 
and  beautiful  Duchess  of  Dash  was  at  one  of  his  ministerial 
parties  ; and  went,  a fortnight  afterwards,  as  in  duty  bound,  to 
May  her  respects  to  AI.  Guizot.  Rut  it  happened,  in  this  fort- 
night, that  M.  Guizot  was  Minister  no  longer ; having  given  up 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  ILVINTING. 


43 


liis  portfolio,  and  his  grand  hotel,  to  retire  into  private  life,  and 
to  occupy  his  hiunl)le  apartments  in  the  house  which  he  pos- 
sesses, and  of  whicli  he  lets  the  greater  portion.  A friend 
of  mine  was  present  at  one  of  the  ex-Minister’s  soirees^  where 
tlie  Ducliess  of  Dash  made  her  appearance.  Me  says  the 
Duchess,  at  her  entrance,  seemed  (piite  astounded,  and  ex- 
amined tlie  premises  with  a most  curious  wonder.  Two  or  three 
shabby  little  rooms,  with  ordinary  furniture,  and  a JMinister 
en  rctraile^  who  lives  by  letting  lodgings!  In  our  country  was 
CA^er  such  a thing  heard  of?  No,  thank  heaven!  and  a F)ritoii 
ought  to  be  i)i-()ud  of  the  ditference. 

But  to  our  muttons.  This  country  is  surel}’  the  paradise  of 
painters  and  [)enny-a-liners  ; and  when  one  reads  of  M.  Horace 
Vernet  at  Rome,  exceeding  ambassadors  at  Rome  by  his  mag- 
nificence, and  leading  such  a life  as  Rubens  or  Titian  did 
of  old  ; when  one  sees  M.  T'hiers’s  grand  villa  in  the  Rue  St. 
George  (a  dozen  years  ago  he  was  not  even  a penii3'-a-liner : no 
such  luck)  ; Avhen  one  contemplates,  in  imagination,  M.  Gudin, 
the  marine  painter,  too  lame  to  walk  through  the  picture-gallery 
of  the  Louvre,  accommodated,  therefore,  Avith  a wheel-chair,  a 
privilege  of  princes  onh",  and  accom[)anied  — na}',  for  Avhat  I 
know,  actually  trundled  — down  the  galleiy  by  majesty  itself 
— who  does  not  long  to  make  one  of  the  great  nation,  exchange 
his  native  tongue  for  the  melodious  jabber  of  France;  or,  at 
least,  ado[)t  it  for  his  native  country,  like  Marshal  Saxe, 
Napoleon,  and  Anacharsis  Clootz ? Noble  people!  they  made 
Tom  Paine  a deputy  ; and  as  for  Tom  Macaula3g  the3^  would 
make  a dynasty  of  him. 

Well,  this  being  the  case,  no  wonder  there  are  so  many 
painters  in  France  ; and  here,  at  least,  Ave  are  back  to  them. 
At  the  Ecole  Roy  ale  des  Beaux  Arts,  you  see  tw^o  or  three 
hundred  specimens  of  their  performances  ; all  the  prize-men, 
since  1750,  I think,  being  bound  to  leave  their  prize  sketch  or 
picture.  Can  anything  good  come  out  of  the  Ro3ml  Acadeny^? 
is  a question  which  has  been  considerably  mooted  in  England 
(in  the  neighborhood  of  Suffolk  Street  especially).  The  hun- 
dreds of  French  samples  are,  I think,  not  veiy  satisfactoiy.  The 
subjects  are  almost  all  what  are  called  classical : Orestes  pur- 
sued ly  every  Amriet3’  of  Furies;  numbers  of  little  wolf-suck- 
ing Romuluses  ; Hectors  and  Andromaches  in  a complication 
of  parting  embraces,  and  so  forth  ; for  it  was  the  absurd  maxim 
of  our  forefathers,  that  because  these  subjects  had  been  the 
fashion  twent3'  centuries  ago,  they  must  remain  so  in  scBcida 
sceculoriim ; because  to  these  loft3’  heights  giants  had  scaled. 


44 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


behold  the  race  of  pigmies  must  get  upon  stilts  and  jump  at 
them  likewise  ! and  on  the  canvas,  and  in  the  theatre,  the 
French  frogs  (excuse  the  pleasantly)  were  instructed  to  swell 
out  and  roar  as  much  as  possible  like  bulls. 

What  was  the  consequence,  my  dear  friend?  In  trying  to 
make  themselves  into  bulls,  the  frogs  make  themselves  into 
jackasses,  as  might  be  expected.  For  a hundred  and  ten  }^ears 
the  classical  humbug  oppressed  the  nation  ; and  you  may  see,  in 
this  galleiy  of  the  Beaux  Arts,  seventy  }^ears’  specimens  of  the 
dulness  which  it  engendered. 

Now,  as  Nature  made  every  man  with  a nose  and  e3"es  of 
his  own,  she  gave  him  a character  of  his  own  too ; and  3’et  we, 
O foolish  race  ! must  tiy  our  ver}'  best  to  ape  some  one  or  two 
of  our  neighbors,  whose  ideas  fit  us  no  more  than  their  breeches  ! 
It  is  the  study  of  nature,  surely,  that  profits  us,  and  not  of  these 
imitations  of  her.  A man,  as  a man,  from  a dustman  up  to 
iEschylus,  is  God’s  work,  and  good  to  read,  as  all  works  of 
Nature  are  : but  the  sill}'  animal  is  never  content ; is  ever 
trying  to  fit  itself  into  another  shape ; wants  to  deny  its  own 
identity,  and  has  not  the  courage  to  utter  its  own  thoughts. 
Because  Lord  Byron  was  wicked,  and  quarrelled  with  the 
world ; and  found  himself  growing  fat,  and  quarrelled  with 
his  victuals,  and  thus,  naturally,  grew  ill-humored,  did  not  half 
Europe  grow  ill-humored  too?  Did  not  every  poet  feel  his 
young  affections  withered,  and  despair  and  darkness  cast 
upon  his  soul?  Because  certain  mighty  men  of  old  could  make 
heroical  statues  and  plays,  must  we  not  be  told  that  there  is  no 
other  beauty  but  classical  beauty?  — must  not  every  little  whip- 
ster of  a French  poet  chalk  you  out  plays,  “ Henriades,”  and 
such-like,  and  vow  that  here  was  the  real  thing,  the  undeniable 
Kalon  ? 

The  undeniable  fiddlestick  ! For  a hundred  years,  my  dear 
sir,  the  world  was  humbugged  by  tlie  so-called  classical  artists, 
as  they  now  are  by  what  is  called  the  Christian  art  (of  which 
anon)  ; and  it  is  curious  to  look  at  the  pictorial  traditions  as 
here  handed  down.  The  consequence  of  them  is,  that  scarce 
oue  of  the  classical  pictures  exhibited  is  worth  much  more  than 
two-and-sixpence.  Borrowed  from  statuary,  in  the  first  place, 
the  color  of  the  paintings  seems,  as  much  as  possible,  to  par- 
ticipate in  it;  they  are  mostly  of  a misty,  stony  green,  dismal 
hue,  as  if  they  had  been  painted  in  a world  where  no  color  was. 
In  every  picture,  there  are,  of  course,  white  mantles,  white  urns, 
white  columns,  white  statues  — those  oblige  accomplishments  of 
the  sublime.  There  are  the  endless  straight  noses,  long  eyes, 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING. 


45 


round  chins,  short  upper  lips,  just  ns  they  are  ruled  down  for 
you  in  the  drawing-books,  as  if  the  latter  were  the  revelations 
of  beauty,  issued  b}'  supreme  authority,  from  which  there  was 
no  appeal?  WI13'  is  the  classical  reign  to  endure?  Why  is 
yonder  simpering  Venus  de’  Medicis  to  be  our  standard  of 
beauty,  or  the  Greek  tragedies  to  bound  our  notions  of  the 
sublime?  There  was  no  reason  wh}'  Agamemnon  should  set 
the  fashions,  and  remain  ava^  avSpon'  to  eternit}' : and  there  is 
a classical  quotation,  which  you  may  have  occasionally  heard, 
beginning  Vixere  fortes^  &c.,  whicli,  as  it  avers  that  there  were 
a great  number  of  stout  fellows  before  Agamemnon,  maj"  not 
unreasonably  induce  us  to  conclude  that  similar  heroes  were  to 
succeed  him.  Shakspeare  made  a better  man  when  his  imagi'- 
nation  moulded  the  mighty  figure  of  Macbeth.  And  if  you  will 
measure  Satan  b}^  Prometheus,  the  blind  old  Puritan’s  work  by 
that  of  the  lieiy  Grecian  poet,  does  not  Milton’s  angel  surpass 
^schjdus’s  — surpass  him  by  “ many  a rood?” 

In  the  same  school  of  the  Beaux  Arts,  where  are  to  be  found 
such  a number  of  pale  imitations  of  the  antique.  Monsieur 
Thiers  (and  he  ought  to  be  thanked  for  it)  has  caused  to  be 
placed  a full-sized  copy  of  “The  Last  Judgment”  of  Michel 
Angelo,  and  a number  of  casts  from  statues  by  the  same 
splendid  hand.  There  is  the  sublime,  if  you  please  — a new 
sublime  — an  original  sublime  — quite  as  sublime  as  the  Greek 
sublime.  See  yonder,  in  the  midst  of  his  angels,  the  Judge  of 
the  world  descending  in  gloiy  ; and  near  him,  beautiful  and 
gentle,  and  }’et  indescribabh’  august  and  pure,  the  Virgin  by 
his  side.  There  is  the  “ Moses,”  the  grandest  figure  that  ever 
was  carved  in  stone.  It  has  about  it  something  frightfull}' 
majestic,  if  one  ma}^  so  speak.  In  examining  this,  and  the 
astonishing  picture  of  “ The  Judgment,”  or  even  a single  figure 
of  it,  the  spectator’s  sense  amounts  almost  to  pain.  I would 
not  like  to  be  left  in  a room  alone  with  the  “Moses.”  How 
did  the  artist  live  amongst  them,  and  create  them?  How  did 
he  suffer  the  painful  labor  of  invention?  One  fancies  that  he 
would  have  been  scorched  up,  like  Semele,  b3^  sights  too  tremen- 
dous for  his  vision  to  bear.  One  cannot  imagine  him,  with  our 
small  physical  endowments  and  weaknesses,  a man  like  ourselves. 

As  for  the  Ecole  Royale  des  Beaux  Arts,  then,  and  all  the 
good  its  students  have  done,  as  students,  it  is  stark  naught. 
When  the  men  did  anything,  it  was  after  thej^  had  left  the 
academ^q  and  began  thinking  for  themselves.  There  is  only^ 
one  picture  among  the  many  hundreds  that  has,  to  my  idea, 
much  merit  (a  charming  composition  of  Homer  singing,  signed 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


-^6 

Jourdy)  ; and  the  onl}^  good  that  the  Academ}"  has  done  by  its 
pupils  was  to  send  them  to  Rome,  where  they  might  learn  better 
things.  At  home,  the  intolerable,  stupid  classicalities,  taught 
by  men  who,  belonging  to  the  least  erudite  country  in  Europe, 
were  themselves,  from  their  profession,  the  least  learned  among 
their  countrymen,  011I3'  w^eighed  the  pupils  down,  and  cramped 
their  hands,  their  e^^es,  and  their  imaginations  ; drove  them  awa}^ 
from  natural  beauty,  which,  thank  God,  is  fresh  and  attainable 
by  us  all,  to-day,  and  yesterday,  and  to-morrow  ; and  sent  them 
rambling  after  artificial  grace,  without  the  proper  means  of 
Judging  or  attaining  it. 

A word  for  the  building  of  the  Palais  des  Beaux  Arts.  It 
is  beautiful,  and  as  well  finished  and  convenient  as  beautiful. 
With  its  light  and  elegant  fabric,  its  pretty  fountain,  its  arch- 
way of  the  Renaissance^  and  fragments  of  sculpture,  }'OU  can 
hardly  see,  on  a fine  da}^  a place  more  riant  and  pleasing. 

Passing  from  thence  up  the  picturesque  Rue  de  Seine,  let  us 
walk  to  the  Luxembourg,  where  bonnes,  students,  grisettes, 
and  old  gentlemen  with  pigtails,  love  to  wander  in  the  melan- 
chol}^  quaint  old  gardens ; where  the  peers  have  a new  and 
comfortable  court  of  justice,  to  judge  all  the  emeutes  which  are 
to  take  place  ; and  where,  as  everybody  knows,  is  the  picture- 
gallery  of  modern  French  artists,  whom  government  thinks 
worthy  of  patronage. 

A very  great  proportion  of  the  pictures,  as  we  see  by  the 
catalogue,  are  by  the  students  whose  works  we  haAm  just  been 
to  visit  at  the  Beaux  Arts,  and  who,  having  performed  their 
pilgrimage  to  Rome,  have  taken  rank  among  the  professors  of 
the  art.  I don’t  know  a more  pleasing  exhibition  ; for  there 
are  not  a dozen  really  bad  pictures  in  the  collection,  some 
very  good,  and  the  rest  showing  great  skill  and  smartness  of 
execution. 

In  the  same  way,  howeA^er,  that  it  has  been  supposed  that 
no  man  could  be  a great  poet  unless  he  wrote  a very  big  poem, 
the  tradition  is  kept  up  among  the  painters,  and  we  have  here 
a vast  number  of  large  canvases,  with  figures  of  the  proper 
heroical length  and  nakedness.  The  anticlassicists  did  notarise 
in  France  until  about  1827  ; and,  in  consequence,  up  to  that 
period,  we  have  here  the  old  classical  faith  in  fullAugor.  There 
is  Brutus,  having  chopped  his  son’s  head  off,  with  all  the  agony 
of  a father,  and  then,  calling  for  number  two ; there  is  ^neas 
carrying  off  old  Anchises ; there  are  Paris  and  Venus,  as 
naked  as  two  Hottentots,  and  many  more  such  choice  subjects 
from  Lempriere. 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING. 


47 


But  the  chief  specimens  of  the  sublime  are  in  the  wa}^  of 
murders,  with  which  the  catalogue  swarms.  Here  are  a few 
extracts  from  it : — 

7.  Beaume,  Chevalier  de  la  Legion  d’Honneur.  “ The  Grand  Dauphi- 
ness  Dying. 

18  Blondel,  Chevalier  de  la,  &e.  “ Zenobia  found  Dead.” 

od.  Debay,  Chevalier.  “ The  Death  of  Lucretia.” 

:>8.  Dejuinne.  “The  Death  of  Hector.” 

34  Court,  Chevalier  de  la,  &c.  “ The  Death  of  Caesar.” 

39,  40,  41.  Delacroix,  Clievalier.  “ Dante  and  Virgil  in  the  Infernal 
Lake!”  “ The  Massacre  of  Scio,”  and  “ Medea  going  to  Murder  her  Chil- 
dren.” 

43.  Delaroche,  Chevalier.  “ Joas  taken  from  among  the  Dead.” 

44.  “ The  Death  of  Queen  Elizabeth.” 

45.  “Edward  V.  and  his  Brother”  (preparing  for  death). 

50.  “ Hecuba  going  to  be  Sacrificed.”  Drolling,  Chevalier. 

51.  Dubois.  “ Young  Clovis  found  Dead.” 

56.  Henry,  Chevalier.  “ The  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.” 

75.  Guerin,  Chevalier.  “Cain,  after  the  Death  of  Abel.” 

83.  Jacquand.  “ Death  of  Adelaide  de  Comminges.” 

88.  “ The  Death  of  Eudamidas.” 

93.  “The  Death  of  Hynietto.” 

103.  “ The  Death  of  Philip  of  Austria.”  — And  so  on. 

You  see  what  woful  subjects  the}^  take,  and  how  profusely 
thej^  are  decorated  with  knighthood.  They  are  like  the  Black 
Brunswickers,  these  painters,  and  ought  to  be  called  Chevaliers 
de  la  Mart.  I don’t  know  why  the  merriest  people  in  the  world 
should  please  themselves  with  such  grim  representations  and 
varieties  of  murder,  or  why  murder  itself  should  be  considered 
so  eminently  sublime  and  poetical.  It  is  good  at  the  end  of  a 
tragedy;  but,  then,  it  is  good  because  it  is  the  end,  and  be- 
cause, by  the  events  foregone,  the  mind  is  prepared  for  it. 
But  these  men  will  have  nothing  but  fifth  acts  ; and  seem  to 
skip,  as  unworth}^  all  the  circumstances  leading- to  them. 
This,  however,  is  part  of  the  scheme  — the  bloated,  unnatural, 
stilted,  spouting,  sham  sublime,  that  our  teachers  have  believed 
and  tried  to  pass  off  as  real,  and  which  your  humble  servant 
and  other  antihumbnggists  should  heartily,  according  to  the 
strength  that  is  in  theni,  endeavor  to  pull  down.  What,  for 
instance,  could  Monsieur  Lafond  care  about  the  death  of  Euda- 
midas? What  was  Hecuba  to  Chevalier  Drolling,  or  Chevalier 
Drolling  to  Hecuba?  I would  lay  a wager  that  neither  of  them 
ever  conjugated  and  that  their  school  learning  carried 

them  not  as  far  as  the  letter,  but  only  to  the  game  of  taw. 
How  were  they  to  be  inspired  by  such  subjects?  From  having 
seen  Talma  and  Mademoiselle  Georges  flaunting  in  sham  Greek 


48 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


costumes,  and  having  read  up  the  articles  Eudamidas,  Hecuba, 
in  the  “ Mythological  Dictionary.”  What  a classicism,  inspired 
by  rouge,  gas-lamps,  and  a few  lines  in  Lempriere,  and  copied, 
half  from  ancient  statues,  and  half  from  a naked  guardsman  at 
one  shilling  and  sixpence  the  hour  ! 

Delacroix  is  a man  of  a very  different  genius,  and  his  “ Me- 
dea ” is  a genuine  creation  of  a noble  fancj".  For  most  of  the 
others,  Mrs.  Brownrigg,  and  her  two  female  ’prentices,  would 
have  done  as  well  as  the  desperate  Colchian  with  her  reWw 
(jiikTara.  M.  Delacroix  has  produced  a number  of  rude,  bar- 
barous pictures  ; but  there  is  the  stamp  of  genius  on  all  of 
them, — the  great  poetical  intention^  which  is  worth  all  your 
execution.  Delaroche  is  another  man  of  high  merit ; with  not 
such  a great  hearty  perhaps,  as  the  other,  but  a fine  and  careful 
draughtsman,  and  an  excellent  arranger  of  his  subject.  “ The 
Death  of  Elizabeth  ” is  a raw  young  performance  seemingly  — 
not,  at  least,  to  my  taste.  The  “ Enfans  d’Edouard  ” is  re- 
nowned over  Europe,  and  has  appeared  in  a hundred  different 
ways  in  print.  It  is  properl}"  pathetic  and  gloom}",  and  merits 
fully  its  high  reputation.  This  painter  rejoices  in  such  subjects 
— in  what  Lord  Portsmouth  used  to  call  black  jobs.”  He 
has  killed  Charles  I.  and  Lady  Jane  Grey,  and  the  Dukes  of 
Guise,  and  I don’t  know  whom  besides.  He  is,  at  present, 
occupied  with  a vast  work  at  the  Beaux  Arts,  where  the  writer 
of  this  had  the  honor  of  seeing  him,  — a little,  keen-looking 
man,  some  five  feet  in  height.  He  wore,  on  this  important 
occasion,  a bandanna  round  his  head,  and  was  in  the  act  oi 
smoking  a cigar. 

Horace  Vernet,  whose  beautiful  daughter  Delaroche  mar- 
ried, is  the  king  of  French  battle-painters  — an  amazingly  rapid 
and  dexterous  draughtsman,  who  has  Napoleon  and  all  the 
campaigns  by  heart,  and  has  painted  the  Grenadier  Fran9ais 
under  all  sorts  of  attitudes.  His  pictures  on  such  subjects  are 
spirited,  natural,  and  excellent ; and  he  is  so  clever  a man, 
that  all  he  does  is  good  to  a certain  degree.  His  “Judith” 
is  somewhat  violent,  perhaps.  His  “Rebecca”  most  pleas- 
ing ; and  not  the  less  so  for  a little  pretty  affectation  of  atti- 
tude and  needless  singularity  of  costume.  “ Raphael  and 
Michael  Angelo  ” is  as  clever  a picture  as  can  be  — clever  is 
just  the  word  — the  groups  and  drawing  excellent,  the  color- 
ing pleasantly  bright  and  gaudy ; and  the  French  students 
study  it  incessantly  ; there  are  a dozen  who  copy  it  for  one 
who  copies  Delacroix.  His  little  scraps  of  wood-cuts,  in  the 
now  publisliing  “ Life  of  Naooleon,”  are  perfect  gems  in  their 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING. 


49 


way,  and  the  noble  price  paid  for  them  not  a penny  more  than 
he  merits. 

The  picture,  by  Court,  of  “The  Death  of  Caesar,”  is  re- 
markable for  effect  and  excellent  workmanship : and  the  head 
of  Brutus  (who  looks  like  Armand  Cari-el)  is  full  of  energy. 
There  are  some  beautiful  lieads  of  women,  and  some  very  good 
color  in  tlie  picture.  Jacquand’s  “ Death  of  Adelaide  de  Com- ' 
minges”  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  beautiful.  Adelaide 
had,  it  appears,  a lover,  who  betook  himself  to  a convent  of 
Trappists.  She  followed  him  thither,  disguised  as  a man, 
took  the  vows,  and  was  not  discovered  by  him  till  on  her 
death-bed.  The  painter  has  told  this  story  in  a most  pleasing 
and  affecting  manner : the  picture  is  full  of  onction  and  melan- 
choly  grace.  The  objects,  too,  are  capitally  represented  ; and 
the  tone  and  color  very  good.  Decaisne’s  “ Guardian  Angel” 
is  not  so  good  in  color,  but  is  equally  beautiful  in  expression 
and  grace.  A little  child  and  a nurse  are  asleep : an  angel 
watches  the  infant.  You  see  women  look  very  wistfully  at 
this  sweet  picture  ; and  what  triumph  would  a painter  have 
more  ? 

We  must  not  quit  the  Luxembourg  without  noticing  the 
dashing  sea-pieces  of  Gudin,  and  one  or  two  landscapes  bj^ 
Giroux  (the  plain  of  Grasivaudan),  and  “The  Prometheus” 
of  Aligny.  This  is  an  imitation,  perhaps  ; as  is  a noble  picture 
of  “Jesus  Christ  and  the  Children,”  by  Flandrin : but  the 
artists  are  imitating  better  models,  at  an}'  rate  ; and  one  be- 
gins to  perceive  that  the  odious  classical  dynasty  is  no  more. 
Poussin’s  magnificent  “ Polyphemus”  (I  only  know  a print  of 
tliat  marvellous  composition)  has,  perhaps,  suggested  the  first- 
named  picture  ; and  the  latter  has  been  inspired  by  a good 
enthusiastic  study  of  the  Roman  schools. 

Of  this  revolution.  Monsieur  Ingres  has  been  one  of  the 
chief  instruments.  He  was,  before  Horace  Vernet,  president  of 
the  French  Academy  at  Rome,  and  is  famous  as  a chief  of  a 
school.  When  he  broke  up  his  atelier  here,  to  set  out  for  his 
presidency,  many  of  his  pupils  attended  him  faithfully  some 
way  on  his  journey ; and  some,  with  scarcely  a penny  in  their 
pouches,  walked  through  France  and  across  the  Alps,  in  a pious 
pilgrimage  to  Rome,  being  determined  not  to  forsake  their  old 
master.  Such  an  action  was  worthy  of  them,  and  of  the  high 
rank  which  their  profession  holds  in  France,  where  the  honors 
to  be  acquired  by  art  are  only  inferior  to  those  which  are  gained 
in  war.  One  reads  of  such  peregrinations  in  old  days,  when  the 
scholars  of  some  great  Italian  painter  followed  him  from  Venice 


50 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


to  Rome,  or  from  Florence  to  Ferrara.  In  regard  of  Ingres’s 
individual  merit  as  a painter,  the  writer  of  this  is  not  a fair 
judge,  having  seen  but  three  pictures  b}"  him  ; one  being  a pla- 
fond in  the  Louvre,  which  his  disciples  much  admire. 

Ingres  stands  between  the  Imperio-Davido-classical  school 
of  French  art,  and  the  namb^'-pamb}-  mj^stical  German  school, 
which  is  for  carrying  us  back  to  Cranach  and  Diirer,  and  which 
is  making  progress  here. 

For  everything  here  finds  imitation : the  French  have  the 
genius  of  imitation  and  caricature.  This  absurd  humbug,  called 
the  Christian  or  Catholic  art,  is  sure  to  tickle  our  neighbors, 
and  will  be  a favorite  with  them,  when  better  known.  dear 
MacGilp,  I do  believe  this  to  be  a greater  humbug  than  the 
humbug  of  David  and  Girodet,  inasmuch  as  the  latter  was 
founded  on  Nature  at  least ; whereas  the  former  is  made  up  of 
sill}’  affectations,  and  improvements  upon  Nature.  Here,  for 
instance,  is  Chevalier  Ziegler’s  picture  of  “ St.  Luke  painting 
the  Virgin.”  St.  Luke  has  a monk’s  dress  on,  embroidered, 
however,  smartly  round  the  sleeves.  The  Virgin  sits  in  an 
immense  yellow-ochre  halo,  with  her  son  in  her  arms.  She 
looks  preternaturally  solemn  ; as  does  St.  Luke,  who  is  eying 
his  paint-brush  with  an  intense  ominous  mystical  look.  They 
call  this  Catholic  art.  There  is  nothing,  my  dear  friend,  more 
eas}'  in  life.  First  take  your  colors,  and  rub  them  down  clean, 
— bright  carmine,  bright  yellow,  bright  sienna,  bright  ultra- 
marine,  bright  green.  Make  the  costumes  of  }’Our  figures  as 
much  as  possible  like  the  costumes  of  the  early  part  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  Paint  them  in  with  the  above  colors  ; and  if 
on  a gold  ground,  the  more  “Catholic”  your  art  is.  Dress 
your  apostles  like  priests  before  the  altar ; and  remember  to 
have  a good  commodity  of  crosiers,  censers,  and  other  such  gim- 
cracks,  as  }’ou  may  see  in  the  Catholic  chapels,  in  Sutton  Street 
and  dsewhere.  Deal  in  Virgins,  and  dress  them  like  a burgo- 
master’s wife  by  Cranach  or  Van  Eyck.  Give  them  all  long 
twisted  tails  to  their  gowns,  and  proper  angular  draperies. 
Place  all  their  heads  on  one  side,  with  the  e}’es  shut,  and  the 
proper  solemn  simper.  At  the  back  of  the  head,  draw,  and 
gild  with  gold-leaf,  a halo  or  gloiy,  of  the  exact  shape  of  a 
cart-wheel : and  3’ou  have  the  thing  done.  It  is  Catholic  art 
tout  crache^  as  Louis  Philippe  sa}’s.  We  have  it  still  in  England, 
handed  down  to  us  for  four  centuries,  in  the  pictures  on  the 
cards,  as  the  redoubtable  king  and  queen  of  clubs.  Look  at 
them  : you  will  see  that  the  costumes  and  attitudes  are  pre^ 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING. 


51 


cisely  similar  to  those  which  figure  in  the  catholicities  of  the 
school  of  Overbeck  and  Cornelius. 

Before  yon  take  your  cane  at  the  door,  look  for  one  instant 
at  the  statue-room.  Yonder  is  Jouffley’s  ‘‘  Jeune  Fille  confiant 
son  premier  secret  a Venus.”  Charming,  charming!  It  is 
from  the  exhibition  of  this  year  onlj’ ; and  I think  the  best 
sculpture  in  the  gallery  — prettj^  fanciful,  naive  ; admirable  in 
workmanship  and  imitation  of  Nature.  I have  seldom  seen 
flesh  better  represented  in  mari)le.  Examine,  also,  Jaley’s 
“ Pudeur,”  Jacquot’s  “Nymph,”  and  Rude’s  “Boy  with  the 
Tortoise.”  These  are  not  veiy  exalted  subjects,  or  what  are 
called  exalted,  and  do  not  go  beyond  simple,  smiling  beauty 
and  nature.  But  what  then?  Are  we  gods,  Miltons,  Michel 
Angelos,  that  can  leave  earth  when  we  please,  and  soar  to 
heights  immeasurable?  No,  dear  MacGilp ; but  the  fools 
of  academicians  would  fain  make  us  so.  Are  you  not,  and  half 
the  painters  in  London,  panting  for  an  opportunity  to  show 
your  genius  in  a great  “historical  picture?”  O blind  race! 
Have  3'ou  wings  ? Not  a feather:  and  yet  3- on  mnst  be  ever 
puffing,  sweating  up  to  the  tops  of  rugged  hills  ; and,  arrived 
there,  clapping  and  shaking  3^0111-  ragged  elbows,  and  making 
as  if  y^ou  would  fl3’ ! Come  down,  silly  Dmdalus  ; come  down 
to  the  I0WI3’  places  in  which  Nature  ordered  you  to  walk.  The 
sweet  flowers  are  springing  there  ; the  fat  muttons  are  waiting 
there  ; the  pleasant  sun  shines  there  ; be  content  and  humble, 
and  take  your  share  of  the  good  cheer. 

While  we  have  been  indulging  in  this  discussion,  the  omni- 
bus has  ga3d3"  conducted  us  across  the  water : and  le  garde  qui 
veille  a la  poi'te  du  Louvre  ne  defend  pas  our  entiy. 

What  a paradise  this  galleiy  is  for  French  students,  or  for- 
eigners who  sojourn  in  the  capital ! It  is  hardly  necessaiy  to 
say  that  the  brethren  of  the  brush  are  not  usua]l3^  supplied  b3^ 
Fortune  with  any  extraordinaiy  wealth,  or  means  of  enjo3ing 
the  luxuries  with  which  Paris,  more  than  any  other  city, 
abounds.  But  here  the3’  have  a luxury  which  surpasses  all 
others,  and  spend  their  da3^s  in  a palace  which  all  the  money  of 
all  the  Rothschilds  could  not  biy^  The3'  sleep,  perhaps,  in  a 
garret,  and  dine  in  a cellar ; but  no  grandee  in  Europe  has  such 
a drawing-room.  Kings’  houses  have,  at  best,  but  damask 
hangings,  and  gilt  cornices.  What  are  these  to  a wall  covered 
with  canvas  by  Paul  Veronese,  or  a hundred  3'ards  of  Rubens? 
Artists  from  England,  who  have  a national  gallery  that  re- 
sembles a moderat>e-sized  gin-shop,  who  ma3^  not  cop3’  pictures, 
except  under  particular  restrictions,  and  on  rare  and  particular 


52 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


days,  ma}"  revel  here  to  their  hearts’  content.  Here  is  a room 
half  a mile  long,  with  as  inaii}^  windows  as  Aladdin’s  palace, 
open  from  sunrise  till  evening,  and  free  to  all  manners  and  all 
varieties  of  stud}" : the  onl}'  puzzle  to  the  student  is  to  select 
the  one  he  shall  begin  upon,  and  keep  his  e3’es  away  from  the 
rest. 

Fontaine’s  grand  staircase,  with  its  arches,  and  painted  ceil- 
ings and  shining  Doric  columns,  leads  directl}’  to  the  gallery ; 
but  it  is  thought  too  fine  for  working  days,  and  is  onl^’  opened 
for  the  public  entrance  on  Sabbath.  A little  back  stair  (leading 
from  a court,  in  which  stand  numerous  bas-reliefs,  and  a solemn 
sphinx,  of  polished  granite,)  is  the  common  entiy  for  students 
and  others,  who,  during  the  week,  enter  the  galleiy. 

Hither  have  lately  been  transported  a number  of  the  works 
of  French  artists,  which  formerlj^  covered  the  walls  of  the  Lux- 
embourg (death  onl}'  entitles  the  French  painter  to  a place  in 
the  Louvre)  ; and  let  us  confine  ourselves  to  the  Frenchmen 
onl3%  for  the  space  of  this  letter. 

I have  seen,  in  a fine  private  collection  at  St.  Germain,  one 
or  two  admirable  single  figures  of  David,  full  of  life,  truth,  and 
ga3"et3\  The  color  is  not  good,  but  all  the  rest  excellent ; and 
one  of  these  so  much-lauded  pictures  is  the  portrait  of  a washer- 
woman. “ Pope  Pius,”  at  the  Louvre,  is  as  bad  in  color  as 
remarkable  for  its  vigor  and  look  of  life.  The  man  had  a genius 
for  painting  portraits  and  common  life,  but  must  attempt  the 
heroic  ; — failed  signally  ; and  what  is  worse,  carried  a whole 
nation  blundering  after  him.  Had  3^011  told  a Frenchman  so, 
twent3^  years  ago,  he  would  have  thrown  the  dementi  in  3"Our 
teeth ; or,  at  least,  laughed  at  you  in  scornful  incredulit3". 
They  say  of  us  that  we  don’t  know  when  we  are  beaten : they 
go  a step  further,  and  swear  their  defeats  are  victories.  David 
was  a part  of  the  gloiy  of  the  empire  ; and  one  might  as  well 
have  said  then  that  “ Romulus  ” was  a bad  picture,  as  that 
Toulouse  was  a lost  battle.  Old-lashioned  people,  who  believe 
in  the  Emperor,  believe  in  the  Theatre  Frangais,  and  believe 
that  Ducis  improved  upon  Shakspeare,  have  the  above  opinion. 
Still,  it  is  curious  to  remark,  in  this  place,  how  art  and  litera- 
ture l)ecome  party  matters,  and  political  sects  have  their  favor- 
ite painters  and  authors. 

Nevertheless,  Jacques  Louis  David  is  dead.  He  died  about 
a year  after  his  bodily  demise  in  1825.  The  romanticism  killed 
him.  Walter  Scott,  from  his  Castle  of  Abbotsford,  sent  out  a 
troop  of  gallant  young  Scotch  adventurers,  merry  outlaws,  val- 
iant knights,  and  savage  Highlanders,  who,  with  trunk  hosen 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING. 


53 


and  buff  jerkins,  fierce  two-handed  swords,  and  harness  on  their 
back,  did  challenge,  combat,  and  overcome  the  heroes  and  demi- 
gods of  Greece  and  Rome.  Notre  Dame  a la  rescousse ! Sir 
Brian  de  Bois  Gnilbert  has  borne  Hector  of  Troy  clear  out  of 
his  saddle.  Andromache  may  weep  : but  her  spouse  is  bey  ond 
the  reach  of  physic.  See  ! Robin  Hood  twangs  his  bow,  and 
the  heathen  gods  fly,  howling.  Monijoie  Saint  Denis!  down 
goes  Ajax  under  the  mace  of  Dnnois  ; and  yonder  are  Leonidas 
and  Romulus  begging  their  lives  of  Rob  Roy  Macgregor.  Clas- 
sicism is  dead.  Sir  John  Froissart  has  taken  Dr.  Lempriere  by 
the  nose,  and  reigns  sovereign. 

Of  the  great  pictures  of  David  the  defunct,  we  need  not, 
then,  say  much.  Romnlns  is  a mighty  fine  3'onng  fellow,  no 
doubt;  and  if  he  has  come  out  to  l)attle  stark  naked  (except  a 
very  handsome  helmet),  it  is  because  the  costume  became  him, 
and  shows  off  his  figure  to  advantage.  But  was  there  ever  aii}'- 
thing  so  absurd  as  this  passion  for  the  nude,  which  was  fol- 
lowed by  all  the  painters  of  the  Davidian  epoch?  And  how  are 
we  to  suppose  yonder  straddle  to  be  the  true  characteristic  of 
the  heroic  and  the  sublime  ? Romnlns  stretches  his  legs  as  far 
as  ever  nature  will  allow  ; the  Iloratii,  in  receiving  their  swords, 
think  proper  to  stretch  their  legs  too,  and  to  thrust  forward  their 
arms,  thus, — 


Romulus’s  is  in  the  exact  action  of  a telegraph  ; and  the  Horatii 
are  all  in  the  position  of  the  lunge.  Is  this  the  sublime?  Mr. 
Angelo,  of  Bond  Street,  might  admire  the  attitude  ; his  name- 
sake, Michel,  I don’t  think  would. 

The  little  picture  of  “ Paris  and  Helen,”  one  of  the  master’s 
earliest,  I believe,  is  likewise  one  of  his  best : the  details  are 
exquisitel}'  painted.  Helen  looks  needlessly  sheepish,  and  Paris 
has  a most  odious  ogle  ; but  the  limbs  of  the  male  figure  are 
beautifully  designed,  and  have  not  the  green  tone  which  you  see 
in  the  later  pictures  of  the  master.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this 
green?  Was  it  the  fashion,  or  the  varnish?  Girodet’s  pictures 
are  green  ; Gros’s  emperors  and  grenadiers  have  universally 
the  jaundice.  Gerard’s  “Psyche”  has  a most  decided  green- 
sickness; and  I am  at  a loss,  I confess,  to  account  for  the 


Romulus. 


The  Horatii. 


54 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


enthusiasm  which  this  performance  inspired  on  its  first  appear- 
ance before  the  public. 

In  the  same  room  with  it  is  Girodet’s  ghastly  “ Deluge,’'" 
and  Gericault’s  dismal  “ Medusa.”  Gericault  died,  they  say, 
for  want  of  fame.  He  was  a man  who  possessed  a considerable 
fortune  of  his  own ; but  pined  because  no  one  in  his  day  would 
purchase  his  pictures,  and  so  acknowledge  his  talent.  At  pres- 
ent, a scrawl  from  his  pencil  brings  an  enormous  price.  All 
his  works  have  a grand  cacltet : he  never  did  anything  mean. 
When  he  painted  the  “ Raft  of  the  J\Iedusa,”  it  is  said  he  lived 
for  a long  time  among  the  corpses  which  he  painted,  and  that 
his  studio  was  a second  Morgue.  If  3’ou  have  not  seen  the 
picture,  you  are  familiar,  probably,  with  Reynolds’s  admirable 
engraving  of  it.  A huge  black  sea;  a raft  beating  upon  it;  a 
horrid  company  of  men  dead,  half  dead,  writhing  and  frantic 
with  hideous  hunger  or  hideous  hope ; and,  far  away,  black, 
against  a stormy  sunset,  a sail.  The  story  is  powerfully  told, 
and  has  a legitimate  tragic  interest,  so  to  speak, — deeper, 
because  more  natural,  than  Girodet’s  green  “ Deluge,”  for  in- 
stance : or  his  livid  “ Orestes,”  or  red-hot  “ Clytemnestra.” 

Seen  from  a distance  the  latter’s  “ Deluge”  has  a certain 
awe-inspiring  air  with  it.  A slimy  green  man  stands  on  a 
green  rock,  and  clutches  hold  of  a tree.  On  the  green  man’s 
shoulders  is  his  old  father,  in  a green  old  age  ; to  him  hangs  his 
wife,  with  a babe  on  her  breast,  and  dangling  at  her  hair,  an- 
other child.  In  the  water  floats  a corpse  (a  beautiful  head)  ; 
and  a green  sea  and  atmosphere  envelops  all  this  dismal  group. 
The  old  father  is  represented  with  a bag  of  money  in  his  hand  ; 
and  the  tree,  which  the  man  catches,  is  cracking,  and  just  on 
the  point  of  giving  way.  These  two  points  were  considered  very 
fine  by  the  critics  : they  are  two  such  ghastly"  epigrams  as  con- 
tinually disfigure  French  Tragedy.  For  this  reason  I have 
never  been  able  to  read  Racine  with  pleasure,  — the  dialogue 
is  so  crammed  with  these  lugubrious  good  things  — melancholy 
antitheses  — sparkling  undertakers’  wit ; but  this  is  heres}^  and 
had  better  be  spoken  discreeth'. 

The  galleiy  contains  a A^ast  number  of  Poussin’s  pictures  ; 
they  put  me  in  mind  of  the  color  of  objects  in  dreams,  — a 
strange,  hazjy  lurid  hue.  How  noble  are  some  of  his  land- 
scapes ! What  a depth  of  solemn  shadow  is  in  ^mnder  wood, 
near  which,  by  the  side  of  a black  water,  halts  Diogenes.  The 
air  is  thunder-laden,  and  breathes  hcavil}^  You  hear  ominous 
whispers  in  the  vast  forest  gloom. 

.Near  it  is  a landscape,  bv  Carel  Dujardin,  I believe,  conceived 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING. 


5p 

ill  quite  n diifereiit  mood,  but  exquisite!}'  poeticrd  too.  A horse 
imiii  is  1‘idiiig  up  a liill,  and  giving  money  to  a blows}"  beggar- 
wench.  0 matalini  rores  aurcEqn.e  salubres!  in  what  a wonderful 
way  has  the  artist  managed  to  create  you  out  of  a few  bladders 
of  paint  and  pots  of  varnish.  You  can  see  the  matutinal  dews 
twinkling  in  dlie  grass,  and  feel  the  fresh,  salubi  ious  airs  (“  the 
breath  of  Nature  blowing  free,”  as  the  corn-law  man  sings)  blow- 
ing  free  over  the  heath  ; silvery  vapors  are  rising  up  from  the 
blue  lowlands.  You  can  tell  the  liour  of  tlie  morning  and  the 
time  of  the  year  : you  can  do  anything  but  (h'serilie  it  in  words. 
As  with  regard  to  the  Poussin  above  mentioned,  one  can  never 
pass  it  without  bearing  away  a certain  pleasing,  dreamy  feeling 
of  awe  and  musing;  the  other  landscape  inspires  the  spectator 
infallibly  with  the  most  delightful  briskness  and  cheerfulness  of 
spirit.  Herein  lies  the  vast  jirivilege  of  the  landscape-painter : 
he  does  not  address  you  with  one  fixed  particular  subject  or  ex- 
pression, but  with  a thousand  never  contemplated  by  himself, 
and  which  only  arise  out  of  occasion.  You  may  always  be  look- 
ing at  a natural  landscape  as  at  a fine  pictorial  imitation  of  one  ; 
it  seems  eternally  producing  new  thoughts  in  your  bosom,  as  it 
does  fresh  beauties  from  its  own.  I cannot  fancy  more  delight- 
ful, cheerful,  silent  companions  for  a man  than  half  a dozen 
landscapes  hung  round  his  study.  lYrtraits,  on  the  contrary, 
and  large  pieces  of  figures,  have  a painful,  fixed,  staring  look, 
which  must  jar  upon  the  mind  in  many  of  its  moods.  Fancy 
living  in  a room  with  David’s  sans-culotte  Leonidas  staring  per- 
petually in  your  face  ! 

There  is  a little  Watteau  here,  and  a rare  piece  of  fantastical 
brightness  and  gayety  it  is.  What  a delightful  affectation  about 
yonder  ladies  flirting  their  fans,  and  trailing  about  in  their  long- 
brocades  ! Y/hat  splendid  dandies  are  those,  ever-smirking, 
turning  out  their  toes,  with  broad  blue  ribbons  to  tie  up  their 
crooks  and  their  pigtails,  and  wonderful  gorgeous  crimson  satin 
breeches  ! Yonder,  in  the  midst  of  a golden  atmosphere,  rises 
a bevy  of  little  round  Cupids,  bubbling  up  in  clusters  as  out  of  a 
champagne-bottle,  and  melting  away  in  air.  There  is,  to  be 
sure,  a hidden  analogy  between  liquors  and  pictures  : the  eye  is 
deliciously  tickled  b}"  these  frisky  Watteaus,  and  yields  itself  up 
to  a light,  smiling,  gentlemanlike  intoxication.  Thus,  were  we 
inclined  to  pursue  further  this  mighty  sulqect,  yonder  landscape 
of  Claude,  — calm,  fresh,  delicate*^,  yet  full  of  flavor, — should 
be  likened  to  a bottle  of  Chateau  Marganx.  And  what  is  the 
Poussin  before  spoken  of  but  Romanee  Gelee  ? — heavy,  slug- 
gish,— the  luscious  odor  almost  sickesis  you;  a sultry  sort  of 


5G 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


drink ; your  limbs  sink  under  it ; you  feel  as  if  you  had  been 
drinking  hot  blood. 

An  ordinaiT  man  would  be  whirled  awa}’  in  a fever,  or  would 
hobble  off  this  mortal  stage  in  a premature  gout-fit,  if  he  too 
early  or  too  often  indulged  in  such  tremendous  drink.  I think 
in  my  heart  I am  fonder  of  pretty  third-rate  pictures  than  of 
3’our  great  thundering  first-rates.  Confess  how  man}^  times  you 
have  read  Beranger,  and  how  man}"  Milton  ? If  you  go  to  the 
“ Star  and  Garter,”  don’t  you  grow  sick  of  that  vast,  luscious 
landscape,  and  long  for  the  sight  of  a couple  of  cows,  or  a 
donkey,  and  a few  yards  of  common?  Donkeys,  my  dear  Mac- 
Gilp,  since  we  have  come  to  this  subject,  say  not  so  ; Richmond 
Hill  for  them.  Milton  they  never  grow  tired  of ; and  are  as 
familiar  with  Raphael  as  Bottom  with  exquisite  Titania.  Let 
us  thank  heaven,  my  dear  sir,  for  according  to  us  the  power  to 
taste  and  appreciate  the  pleasures  of  mediocrity.  I have  never 
heard  that  we  were  great  geniuses.  Earthy  are  we,  and  of  the 
earth  ; glimpses  of  the  sublime  are  but  rare  to  us  ; leave  we 
them  to  great  geniuses,  and  to  the  donkeys  ; and  if  it  nothing 
pi’ofit  us  aerias  tentdsse  domos  along  with  them,  let  us  thankfully 
remain  below,  being  merry  and  humble. 

I have  now  only  to  mention  the  charming  “ Cruche  Cassee” 
of  Greuze,  which  all  the  young  ladies  delight  to  copy ; and  of 
which  the  color  (a  thought  too  blue,  perhaps)  is  marvellously 
graceful  and  delicate.  There  are  three  more  pictures  by  the 
artist,  containing  exquisite  female  heads  and  color ; but  they 
have  charms  for  French  critics  which  are  difficult  to  be  dis- 
covered by  English  eyes  ; and  the  pictures  seem  weak  to  me. 
A very  fine  picture  b}’  Bon  Bollongue,  “ Saint  Benedict  resusci- 
tating a Child,”  deserves  particular  attention,  and  is  superb  in 
vigor  and  richness  of  color.  You  must  look,  too,  at  the  large, 
noble,  melancholy  landscapes  of  Philippe  de  Champagne ; and 
the  two  magnificent  Italian  pictures  of  Leopold  Robert : they 
are,  perhaps,  the  very  finest  pictures  that  the  French  school  has 
produced,  — as  deep  as  Poussin,  of  a better  color,  and  of  a 
wonderful  minuteness  and  veracity  in  the  representation  of 
objects. 

Every  one  of  Lesueur’s  church-pictures  is  worth  examining 
and  admiring;  they  are  full  of  “ unction ” and  pious  mystical 
grace.  “ Saint  Scholastica”  is  divine  ; and  the  “ Taking  down 
from  the  Cross  ” as  noble  a composition  as  ever  was  seen ; I 
care  not  by  whom  the  other  may  be.  There  is  more  beauty, 
and  less  affectation,  about  this  picture  than  you  will  find  in  the 
performances  of  many  Italian  masters,  with  high-sounding 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING. 


57 


names  (out  with  it,  and  say  Raphael  at  once).  I hate  those 
simpering  JMadonnas.  1 declare  that  the  “Jardiniere”  is  a 
puking,  smirking  miss,  with  nothing  heavenly  about  her.  I 
vow  that  the  “ Saint  Elizabeth”  is  a bad  picture,  — a bad  com- 
position, badly  drawn,  badly  colored,  in  a bad  imitation  of 
Titian,  — a piece  of  vile  alfectation.  I say,  tliat  when  Raphael 
painted  this  picture  two  3’eai‘S  before  his  dtaitli,  the  spirit  of 
painting  had  gone  IVom  out  of  him  ; he  was  no  longer  inspired  ; 
it  ivas  time  that  he  should  die  ! ! 

There,  — the  murder  is  out ! My  paper  is  tilled  to  the  brim, 
and  there  is  no  time  to  speak  of  Lesueur’s  Crucifixion,”  which 
is  odiously  colored,  to  be  sure  ; but  earnest,  tender,  simple, 
holy.  Hut  such  things  are  most  dillicult  to  translate  into 
words  ; — one  lays  down  the  pen,  and  thinks  and  thinks.  The 
figures  appear,  and  take  their  places  one  by  one : ranging 
themselves  according  to  order,  in  light  or  in  gloom,  the  colors 
are  reflected  duhMn  the  little  camera  obscura  of  the  brain,  and 
the  whole  picture  lies  there  complete  ; but  can  you  describe  it? 
No,  not  if  pens  were  fltch-brushes,  and  words  were  bladders  of 
paint.  With  which,  for  the  present,  adieu. 

Your  faithful 

M.  A.  T. 

To  Mk.  Robert  MacGilp, 

Newman  Street,  London. 


THE  PAINTER’S  BARGAIN. 


Simon  Gambouge  was  the  son  of  Solomon  Gambouge ; and 
as  all  the  world  knows,  both  father  and  son  were  astonishinglj^ 
clever  fellows  at  their  profession.  Solomon  painted  land- 
scapes, which  nobody  bought ; and  Simon  took  a higher  line, 
and  painted  portraits  to  admiration,  only  nobody  came  to  sit 
to  him. 

As  he  was  not  gaining  five  pounds  a year  by  his  profession, 
and  had  arrived  at  the  age  of  twenty,  at  least,  Simon  deter- 
mined to  better  himself  by  taking  a wife,  — a plan  which  a 
number  of  other  wise  men  adopt,  in  similar  years  and  circum- 
stances. So  Simon  prevailed  upon  a butcher’s  daughter  (to 
whom  he  owed  considerably  for  cutlets)  to  quit  the  meat-shop 
and  follow  him.  Griskinissa  — such  was  the  fair  creature’s 
name  — “ was  as  loveh^  a bit  of  mutton,”  her  father  said,  “ as 
ever  a man  would  wish  to  stick  a knife  into.”  She  had  sat 
to  the  painter  for  all  sorts  of  characters  ; and  the  curious  who 
possess  any  of  Gambouge’s  pictures  will  see  her  as  Venus, 
Minerva,  Madonna,  and  in  numberless  other  characters  : Por- 
trait of  a lad}^  — Griskinissa;  Sleeping  N3’mph  — Griskinissa, 
without  a rag  of  clothes,  hung  in  a forest ; Maternal  Solicitude 
— Griskinissa  again,  with  }’oung  Master  Gambouge,  who  was 
b}^  this  time  the  off’spring  of  their  affections. 

' The  lad^^  brought  the  painter  a handsome  little  fortune  of 
a couple  of  hundred  pounds  ; and  as  long  as  this  sum  lasted 
no  w'oman  could  be  more  lovel}’  or  loving.  But  want  began 
speedil}'  to  attack  their  little  household  ; bakers’  bills  were  un- 
paid ; rent  was  due,  and  the  reckless  landlord  gave  no  quarter  ; 
and,  to  crown  the  whole,  her  father,  unnatural  butcher!  sud- 
denly' stopped  the  supplies  of  mutton-chops  ; and  swore  that 


THE  PAINTER’S  BARGAIN. 


59 


his  daughter,  and  the  dauber,  her  husband,  should  have  no  more 
of  his  wares.  At  first  the}'  embraced  tenderly,  and,  kissing  and 
crying  over  their  little  infant,  vowed  to  heaven  that  they  would 
do  without:  but  in  the  course  of  the  evening  Griskinissa  grew 
peckish,  and  poor  Simon  pawned  his  best  coat. 

AVhen  this  habit  of  pawning  is  discovered,  it  appears  to  the 
poor  a kind  of  Eldorado.  Gambouge  and  his  wife  were  so 
delighted,  that  they,  iu  the  course  of  a month,  made  away  with 
her  gold  chain,  her  great  warming-pan,  his  best  crimson  plush 
inexpressibles,  two  wigs,  a washhand  basin  and  ewer,  tire-irous, 
window-curtains,  crockery,  and  arm-chairs.  Griskinissa  said, 
smiling,  that  she  had  found  a second  fatlier  in  her  uncJe^  — a 
base  pun,  which  showed  that  her  mind  was  corrupted,  and 
that  she  was  no  longer  the  tender,  simple  Griskinissa  of  other 
days. 

I am  sorry  to  say  that  she  had  taken  to  drinking ; she  swal- 
lowed the  warming-pan  in  the  course  of  three  days,  and  fuddled 
herself  one  whole  evening  with  the  crimson  plush  breeches. 

Drinking  is  the  devil  — the  father,  that  is  to  say,  of  all  vices. 
Griskinissa’s  face  and  her  mind  grew  ugl}^  together ; her  good 
humor  changed  to  bilious,  bitter  discontent ; her  prett}’,  fond 
epithets,  to  foul  abuse  and  swearing  ; her  tender  blue  eyes  grew 
watery  and  blear,  and  the  peach-color  on  her  cheeks  fled  from 
its  old  habitation,  and  crowded  up  into  her  nose,  where,  with 
a number  of  pimples,  it  stuck  fast.  Add  to  this  a dirty,  drag- 
gle-tailed chintz  ; long,  matted  hair,  wandering  into  her  ej’es, 
and  over  her  lean  shoulders,  which  were  once  so  snowy,  and 
3'ou  have  the  picture  of  drunkenness  and  Mrs.  Simon  Gam- 
bouge. 

Poor  Simon,  who  had  been  a gay,  lively  fellow  enough  in  the 
days  of  his  better  fortune,  was  completely  cast  down  by  his 
present  ill  luck,  and  cowed  by  the  ferocity  of  his  wife.  From 
morning  till  night  the  neighbors  could  hear  this  woman’s  tongue, 
and  understand  her  doings ; bellows  went  skimming  across  the 
room,  chairs  were  flumped  down  on  the  floor,  and  poor  Gam- 
bouge’s  oil  and  varnish  pots  went  clattering  through  the  win- 
dows, or  down  the  stairs.  The  baby  roared  all  day ; and 
Simon  sat  pale  and  idle  in  a corner,  taking  a small  sup  at  the 
brand3'-bottle,  when  Mrs.  Gambouge  was  out  of  the  way. 

One  day,  as  he  sat  disconsolate!}'  at  his  easel,  furbishing  up 
a picture  of  his  wife,  in  the  character  of  Peace,  which  he  had 
commenced  a year  before,  he  was  more  than  ordinai-ily  des))er- 
ate,  and  cursed  and  swore  in  the  most  pathetic  manner.  “O 
miserable  fate  of  genius!”  cried  he,  “was  I,  a man  of  such 


60 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


commanding  talents,  born  for  this?  to  be  bullied  b^^  a fiend  of  a 
wife  ; to  have  my  masterpieces  neglected  b}^  the  world,  or  sold 
only  for  a few  pieces?  Cursed  be  the  love  which  has  misled 
me  ; cursed  be  the  art  which  is  imworth}^  of  me  ! Let  me  dig 
or  steal,  let  me  sell  myself  as  a soldier,  or  sell  myself  to  the 
Devil,  I should  not  be  more  wretched  than  I am  now  ! ” 

“ Quite  the  contraiy,”  cried  a small,  cheeiy  voice. 

What !”  exclaimed  Gambouge,  trembling  and  surprised. 
“ Who’s  there  ? — where  are  you  ? — who  are  you  ? ” 

“ You  were  just  speaking  of  me,”  said  the  voice. 

Gambouge  held,  in  his  left  hand,  his  palette  ; in  his  right,  a 
bladder  of  crimson  lake,  which  he  was  about  to  squeeze  out 
upon  the  mahogaiy.  “Where  are  3^011?”  cried  he  again. 

“ S-q-u-e-e-z-e  ! ” exclaimed  the  little  voice. 

Gambouge  picked  out  the  nail  from  the  bladder,  and  gave 
a squeeze  ; when,  as  sure  as  I am  living,  a little  imp  spurted 
out  from  the  hole  upon  the  palette,  and  began  laughing  in  the 
most  singular  and  oih’  manner. 

When  first  born  he  was  little  bigger  than  a tadpole  ; then  he 
grew  to  be  as  big  as  a mouse  ; then  he  arrived  at  the  size  of  a 
cat ; and  then  he  jumped  off  the  palette,  and,  turning  head  over 
heels,  asked  the  poor  painter  what  he  wanted  with  him. 

The  strange  little  animal  twisted  head  over  heels,  and  fixed 
himself  at  last  upon  the  top  of  Gambouge’s  easel,  — smearing 
out,  with  his  heels,  all  the  white  and  vermilion  which  had  just 
been  laid  on  the  allegoric  portrait  of  Mrs.  Gambouge. 

“ What ! ” exclaimed  Simon,  “ is  it  the  — ” 

“ Exactly  so;  talk  of  me,  you  know,  and  I am  alwaj's  at 
hand  : besides,  I am  not  half  so  black  as  I am  painted,  as  3^011 
will  see  when  3'ou  know  me  a little  better.” 

“Upon  m3'  word,”  said  the  painter,  “ it  is  a very  singular 
surprise  which  you  have  given  me.  To  tell  truth,  I did  not 
even  believe  in  your  existence.” 

The  little  imp  put  on  a theatrical  air,  and,  with  one  of  Mr. 
Macread3'’s  best  looks,  said,  — 

“ Tliere  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Gambogio, 

Than  are  dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy.” 

Gambouge,  being  a Frenchman,  did  not  understand  the 
quotation,  but  felt  somehow  strangel3' and  singularly  interested 
in  the  conversation  of  his  new  friend. 

Diabolus  continued:  “ You  are  a man  of  merit,  and  want 
mone3' ; 3^ou  will  starve  on  3'our  merit ; you  can  onl3^  get  money 


THE  PAINTER’S  BARGAIN. 


61 


from  me.  Come,  103’  friend,  how  much  is  it?  I ask  the  easiest 
interest  in  the  world  : old  Mordecai,  the  usurer,  has  made  3^011 
pa3'  twice  as  heavily  befoi'e  now:  nothing  but  the  signature  of 
a bond,  which  is  a mere  cerenion3',  and  the  transfer  of  an  article 
which,  in  itself,  is  a supposition  — a valueless,  wind3',  iin<^‘er- 
tain  property  of  3’ours,  called,  by  some  poet  of  your  own,  I 
think,  an  cmimula^  varjiua,  hlandula  — bah!  there  is  no  use 
beating  about  the  bush  — I mean  a soul.  Come,  let  me  have 
it ; 3^011  know  you  will  sell  it  some  other  way,  and  not  get  such 
good  pay  for  your  bai-gaiu  1 ” — and,  having  made  this  speech, 
the  Devil  pulled  out  from  his  fob  a sheet  as  big  as  a double 
Times.,  onl3"  there  was  a different  stamp  in  the  corner. 

It  is  useless  and  tedious  to  describe  law  documents  : lawyers 
onh’  love  to  read  them  ; and  the3^  have  as  good  in  Chitt3'  as  au3^ 
that  are  to  be  found  in  the  Devil’s  own  ; so  nobly  have  the 
apprentices  emulated  the  skill  of  the  master.  vSuffice  it  to  say, 
that  poor  Gambouge  read  over  the  paper,  and  signed  it.  lie 
was  to  have  all  he  wished  for  seven  years,  and  at  the  end  of 

that  time  was  to  become  the  propert3"  of  the ; Problheh 

that,  during  the  course  of  the  seven  3'ears,  eveiy  single  wish 
which  he  might  form  should  be  gratified  133'  the  other  of  the 
contracting  parties  ; otherwise  the  deed  became  null  and  non- 
avenue, and  Gambouge  should  be  left  “ to  go  to  the his 

own  way.” 

“You  will  never  see  me  again,”  said  Diabolus,  in  shaking 
hands  with  poor  Simon,  on  whose  fingers  he  left  such  a mark 
as  is  to  be  seen  at  this  da3^ — “ never,  at  least,  unless  you 
want  me  ; for  everything  you  ask  will  be  performed  in  the  most 
quiet  and  eveiy-da3^  manner:  believe  me,  it  is  best  and  most 
gentlemanlike,  and  avoids  anything  like  scandal.  But  if  you 
set  me  about  anything  which  is  extraordinary,  and  out  of  the 
course  of  nature,  as  it  were,  come  I must,  3'ou  know ; and  of 
this  3^011  are  the  best  judge.”  So  saying,  Diabolus  disappeared  ; 
but  whether  up  the  chimney,  through  the  keyhole,  or  b3'  au3^ 
other  aperture  or  contrivance,  nobod3^  knows.  Simon  Gam- 
bouge was  left  in  a fever  of  delight,  as,  heaven  forgive  me ! 
I believe  man3"  a worth)"  man  ’would  be,  if  he  were  allowed  an 
opportunity  to  make  a similar  bargain. 

“ Ileigho  I ” said  Simon.  “I  wonder  whether  this  be  a 
reality  or  a dream.  — I am  sober,  I know  ; for  who  will  give 
me  credit  for  the  means  to  be  drunk?  and  as  for  sleeping,  I’m 
too  hungry  for  that.  I wish  I could  see  a capon  and  a bottle 
■of  white  wine.” 

“ Monsieur  Simon!  ” cried  a voice  on  the  landing-place. 


62 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


“ C’est  ici,”  quoth  Gambouge,  hastening  to  open  the  door. 
He  did  so  ; and  lo  ! there  was  a restaurateur’s  boy  at  the  door, 
supporting  a tray,  a tin-covered  dish,  and  plates  on  the  same  ; 
and,  by  its  side,  a tall  amber-colored  flask  of  Sauterne. 

“I  am  the  new  boy,  sir,”  exclaimed  this  j’outh,  on  entering  ; 
“ but  I believe  this  is  the  right  door,  and  3 011  asked  for  these 
things.” 

Simon  grinned,  and  said,  “ Certainl}’,  I did  ask  for  these 
things.”  But  such  was  the  effect  which  his  interview  with  the 
demon  had  had  on  his  innocent  mind,  that  he  took  them,  ab 
though  he  knew  that  the}^  were  for  old  Simon,  the  Jew  dand}’, 
who  was  mad  after  an  opera  girl,  and  lived  on  the  floor  be- 
neath. 

“ Go,  mj-  bo}^,”  he  said  ; “it  is  good : call  in  a couple  of 
hours,  and  remove  the  plates  and  glasses.” 

The  little  waiter  trotted  down  stairs,  and  Simon  sat  greedily 
down  to  discuss  the  capon  and  the  white  wine.  He  bolted  the 
legs,  he  devoured  the  wungs,  he  cut  ever3’  morsel  of  flesh  from 
the  breast ; — seasoning  his  repast  with  pleasant  draughts  of 
wine,  and  caring  nothing  for  the  inevitable  bill,  which  was  to 
follow  all. 

“ Ye  gods  ! ” said  he,  as  he  scraped  awa}^  at  the  backbone, 
“ what  a dinner  ! what  wine  ! — and  how  gayly  served  up  too  ! ” 
There  were  silver  forks  and  spoons,  and  the  remnants  of  the 
fowl  were  upon  a silver  dish.  “ Wh}',  the  money  for  this  dish 
and  these  spoons,”  cried  Simon,  “ would  keep  me  and  Mrs.  G. 
for  a month  ! I wish  ” — and  here  Simon  whistled,  and  turned 
round  to  see  that  nobod}"  was  peeping  — “I  wish  the  plate 
were  mine.” 

Oh,  the  horrid  progress  of  the  Devil!  “Here  they  are,” 
thought  Simon  to  himself;  “ wh}^  should  not  I take  themV" 
And  take  them  he  did.  “ Detection,”  said  he,  “ is  not  so  bad 
as  starvation  ; and  I would  as  soon  live  at  the  galleys  as  live 
with  Madame  Gambouge.” 

So  Gambouge  shovelled  dish  and  spoons  into  the  flap  of  his 
surtout,  and  ran  down  stairs  as  if  the  Devil  were  behind  him  — 
as,  indeed,  he  was. 

He  immediately  made  for  the  house  of  his  old  friend  the 
pawnbroker  — that  establishment  which  is  called  in  France  the 
^lont  de  Piete.  “ I am  obliged  to  come  to  3^011  again,  my  old 
friend,”  said  Simon,  “with  some  famil3^  plate,  of  which  I be- 
seech vou  to  take  care.” 

The  pawnbroker  smiled  as  he  examined  the  goods.  “ I can 
give  3'ou  nothing  upon  them,”  said  he. 


'HE  PAINTER’S  BARGAIN. 


63 


“What!”  cried  Simon;  “not  even  the  worth  of  the  sil- 
ver ? ” 

“ No  ; I could  buy  them  at  that  price  at  the  ‘ Cafe  Morisot,’ 
Rue  de  la  Verrerie,  where,  I suppose,  you  got  them  a little 
cheaper.”  And,  so  saying*,  he  showed  to  the  guilt-stricken 
Gambouge  how  the  name  of  that  coffee-house  was  inscribed 
upon  every  one  of  the  articles  which  he  had  wished  to  pawn. 

The  effects  of  conscience  are  dreadful  indeed.  Oh  I how 
fearful  is  retribution,  how  deep  is  despair,  liow  bitter  is  remorse 
for  crime  — when  crime  is  found  out ! — otherwise,  conscience 
takes  matters  much  more  easil}\  Gambouge  cursed  his  fate, 
and  swore  henceforth  to  be  virtuous. 

“But,  hark  }’e,  m3"  friend,”  continued  the  honest  broker, 
“there  is  no  reason  WI13",  because  I cannot  lend  upon  these 
things,  I should  not  bu3"  them  : they  will  do  to  melt,  if  for  no 
other  purpose.  Will  you  have  half  the  inone}^? — speak,  or  I 
peach.” 

Simon’s  resolves  about  virtue  were  dissipated  instantane- 
ously. “Give  me  half,”  he  said,  “and  let  me  go. — What 
scoundrels  are  these  pawnbrokers  ! ” ejaculated  he,  as  he  passed 
out  of  the  accursed  shop,  “seeking  ever}"  wicked  pretext  to 
rob  the  poor  man  of  his  hard-won  gain.” 

When  he  had  marched  forwards  for  a street  or  two,  Gam- 
bouge counted  the  money  which  he  had  received,  and  found 
that  he  was  in  possession  of  no  less  than  a hundred  francs.  It 
was  night,  as  he  reckoned  out  his  equivocal  gains,  and  he 
counted  them  at  the  light  of  a lamp.  He  looked  up  at  the 
lamp,  in  doubt  as  to  the  course  he  should  next  pursue  : upon 
it  was  inscribed  the  simple  number,  152.  “ A gambling- 

house,”  thought  Gambouge.  “ I wish  I had  half  the  money 
that  is  now  on  the  table,  up  stairs.” 

He  mounted,  as  man}^  a rogue  has  done  before  him,  and 
found  half  a hundred  persons  bus}"  at  a table  of  rouge  et  noir. 
Gambouge’s  five  napoleons  looked  insignificant  by  the  side  of 
the  heaps  which  were  around  him  ; but  the  effects  of  the  wine,  of 
the  theft,  and  of  the  detection  by  the  pawnbroker,  were  upon 
him,  and  he  threw  down  his  capital  stoutly  upon  the  0 0. 

It  is  a dangerous  spot  that  0 0,  or  double  zero  ; but  to 
Simon  it  was  more  lucky  than  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  The 
ball  went  spinning  round — in  “its  predestined  circle  rolled,” 
as  Shelley  has  it,  after  Goethe  — and  plumped  down  at  last  in 
the  double  zero.  One  hundred  and  thirty-five  gold  napoleons 
(louis  they  were  then)  were  counted  out  to  the  delighted  painter. 
“ Oh,  Diabolus  ! ” cried  he,  “ now  it  is  that  I begin  to  believe 


04 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


in  thee!  Don’t  talk  about  merit,”  he  cried;  “talk  about 
fortune.  Tell  me  not  about  heroes  for  the  future  — tell  me 
of  zeroes”  And  down  went  twenty  napoleons  more  upon 
the  0. 

The  Devil  was  certainl}"  in  the  ball : round  it  twirled,  and 
dropped  into  zero  as  natural!}-  as  a duck  pops  its  head  into  a 
pond.  Our  friend  received  five  hundred  pounds  for  his  stake  ; 
and  the  croupiers  and  lookers-on  began  to  stare  at  him. 

There  were  twelve  thousand  pounds  on  the  table.  Suffice 
it  to  say,  that  Simon  won  half,  and  retired  from  the  Palais 
Royal  with  a thick  bundle  of  bank-notes  crammed  into  his  dirty 
three-cornered  hat.  He  had  been  but  half  an  hour  in  the  place, 
and  he  had  won  the  revemies  of  a prince  for  half  a year ! 

Gambouge,  as  soon  as  he  felt  that  he  was  a capitalist,  and 
that  he  had  a stake  in  the  country,  discovered  that  he  was  an 
altered  man.  Pie  repented  of  his  foul  deed,  and  his  base  pur- 
loining of  the  restaurateur’s  plate.  “O  honesty!”  he  cried, 
“ how  unworthy  is  an  action  like  this  of  a man  who  has  a prop- 
erty like  mine  ! ” So  he  went  back  to  the  pawnbroker  with  the 
gloomiest  face  imaginable.  “My  friend,”  said  he,  “I  have 
sinned  against  all  that  I hold  most  sacred  : I have  forgotten 
my  family  and  my  religion.  Plere  is  thy  money.  In  the  name 
of  heaven,  restore  me  the  plate  which  I have  wrongfullv  sold 
thee ! ” 

But  the  pawnbroker  grinned,  and  said,  “Nay,  Mr.  Gam- 
bouge, I will  sell  that  plate  for  a thousand  francs  to  you,  or  I 
never  will  sell  it  at  all.” 

“Well,”  cried  Gambouge,  “ thou  art  an  inexorable  ruffian, 
Troisboules  ; but  I will  give  thee  all  1 am  worth.”  And  here 
he  produced  a billet  of  five  hundred  francs.  “ Look,”  said  he, 
“this  money  is  all  I own;  it  is  the  payment  of  two  years’ 
lodging.  To  raise  it,  I have  toiled  for  many  months ; and, 
failing,  I have  been  a criminal.  O heaven  ! I stole  that  plate 
that  I might  pay  my  debt,  and  keep  my  dear  wife  from  wander- 
ing houseless.  But  I cannot  bear  this  load  of  ignominy  — I 
cannot  suffer  the  thought  of  this  crime.  I will  go  to  the  person 
to  whom  I did  wrong,  I will  starve,  I will  confess  ; but  I will, 
I will  do  right ! ” 

The  broker  was  alarmed.  “Give  me  thy  note,”  he  cried; 
“ here  is  the  plate.” 

“Give  me  an  acquittal  first,”  cried  Simon,  almost  broken- 
hearted ; “sign  me  a paper,  and  the  money  is  yours.”  So 
Troisboules  wrote  according  to  Gambouge’s  dictation : “ Re- 
ceived, for  thirteen  ounces  of  plate,  twenty  pounds.” 


THE  PAINTER’S  BARGAIN. 


65 


Monster  of  iniquity  ! ” cried  the  painter,  “ fiend  of  wicked- 
ness ! thou  art  caught  in  thine  own  snares.  Hast  thou  not  sold 
me  five  pounds’  worth  of  plate  for  twent}'?  Have  I it  not  in 
my  pocket?  Art  thou  not  a convicted  dealer  in  stolen  goods? 
Held,  scoundrel,  yield  thy  money,  or  I will  bring  thee  to 
Justice ! ” 

The  frightened  pawnbroker  bullied  and  battled  for  a while ; 
but  he  gave  up  his  monc}’  at  last,  and  the  dispute  ended.  Thus 
it  will  be  seen  that  Diabolus  had  rather  a hard  bargain  in  the 
wily  Gambouge.  lie  had  taken  a victim  prisoner,  but  he  had 
assuredly  caught  a Tartar.  Simon  now  returned  home,  and,  to 
do  him  justice,  paid  the  bill  for  his  dinner,  and  restored  the 
plate. 

And  now  I may  add  (and  the  reader  should  ponder  upon 
this,  as  a profound  picture  of  human  life),  that  Gambouge, 
since  he  had  grown  rich,  grew  likewise  abundantly  moral.  He 
was  a most  exemplaiy  father.  He  fed  the  poor,  and  was  loved 
by  them.  He  scorned  a base  action.  And  I have  no  doubt 
that  Mr.  Thurtell,  or  the  late  lamented  Mr.  Greenacre,  in  simi- 
lar circumstances,  would  have  acted  like  the  worthy  Simon 
Gambouge. 

There  was  but  one  blot  upon  his  character — he  hated  Mrs. 
Gam.  worse  than  ever.  As  he  grew  more  benevolent,  she  grew 
more  virulent : when  he  went  to  plays,  she  went  to  Bible 
societies,  and  vice  versa : in  fact,  she  led  him  such  a life  as 
Xantippe  led  Socrates,  or  as  a dog  leads  a cat  in  the  same 
kitchen.  With  all  his  fortune  — for,  as  may  be  supposed, 
Simon  prospered  in  all  worldly  things  — he  was  the  most  mis- 
erable dog  in  the  whole  city  of  Paris.  Onl}^  in  the  point  of 
drinking  did  he  and  Mrs.  Simon  agree  ; and  for  many  }xars, 
and  during  a considerable  number  of  hours  in  each  day,  he 
thus  dissipated,  partially,  his  domestic  chagrin.  O philosophy  ! 
we  may  talk  of  thee  : but,  except  at  the  bottom  of  the  wine- 
cup,  where  thou  liest  like  truth  in  a well,  where  shall  we  find 
thee  ? 

He  lived  so  long,  and  in  his  worldly  matters  prospered  so 
much,  there  was  so  little  sign  of  devilment  in  the  accomplish- 
ment of  his  wishes,  and  the  increase  of  his  prosperit}’,  that 
Simon,  at  the  end  of  six  }"ears,  began  to  doubt  whether  he  had 
made  any  such  bargain  at  all,  as  that  which  we  have  described 
at  the  commencement  of  this  history.  He  had  grown,  as  we 
said,  very  pious  and  moral.  He  went  regularl}"  to  mass,  and 
had  a confessor  into  the  bargain.  He  resolved,  therefore,  to 


66 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


consult  that  reverend  gentleman,  and  to  la}"  before  him  the 
whole  matter. 

“I  am  inclined  to  think,  holy  sir,”  said  Gambouge,  after 
he  had  concluded  his  history,  and  shown  how,  in  some  miracu- 
lous way,  all  his  desires  were  accomplished,  “that,  after  all, 
this  demon  was  no  other  than  the  creation  of  my  own  brain, 
heated  by  the  effects  of  that  bottle  of  wine,  the  cause  of  my 
crime  and  my  prosperity.” 

The  confessor  agreed  with  him,  and  they  walked  out  of 
church  comfortably  together,  and  entered  afterwards  a cafe^ 
where  they  sat  down  to  refresh  themselves  after  the  fatigues  of 
their  devotion. 

A respectable  old  gentleman,  with  a number  of  orders  at 
his  buttonhole,  presently  entered  the  room,  and  sauntered  up  to 
the  marble  table,  before  which  reposed  Simon  and  his  clerical 
friend.  “ Excuse  me,  gentlemen,”  he  said,  as  he  took  a place 
opposite  them,  and  began  reading  the  papers  of  the  day. 

“Bah  ! ” said  he,  at  last,  — “ sont-ils  grands  ces  journaux 
Anglais?  Look,  sir,”  he  said,  handing  over  an  immense  sheet 
of  The  Times  to  Mr.  Gambouge,  “ was  ever  anything  so  mon- 
strous? ” 

Gambouge  smiled  politel}*,  and  examined  the  proffered 
page.  “It  is  enormous  ” he  said  ; “but  Ido  not  read  Eng- 
lish.” 

“Nay,”  said  the  man  with  the  orders,  “look  closer  at  it. 
Signor  Gambouge  ; it  is  astonishing  how  easy  the  language  is.” 

Wondering,  Simon  took  a sheet  of  paper.  He  turned  pale 
as  he  looked  at  it,  and  began  to  curse  the  ices  and  the  waiter. 
“Come,  M.  I’Abbe,”  he  said;  “the  heat  and  glare  of  this 
place  are  intolerable.” 

The  stranger  rose  with  them.  “ Au  plaisir  de  vous  revoir, 
mon  cher  monsieur,”  said  he  ; “Ido  not  mind  speaking  before 
Vthe  Abbe  here,  who  will  be  my  ver}"  good  friend  one  of  these 
days  ; but  I thought  it  necessary  to  refresh  your  memory,  con- 
cerning our  little  business  transaction  six  years  since  ; and  could 
not  exactly  talk  of  it  at  churchy  as  you  may  fanc}".” 

Simon  Gambouge  had  seen,  in  the  double-sheeted  Times,  the 
paper  signed  by  himself,  which  the  little  Devil  had  pulled  out  of 
his  fob. 

There  was  no  doubt  on  the  subject ; and  Simon,  who  had  but 
a year  to  live,  grew  more  pious,  and  more  careful  than  ever. 
He  had  consultations  with  all  the  doctors  of  the  Sorbonne  and 


THE  PAINTER’S  BARGAIN. 


67 


all  the  lawyers  of  the  Palais.  But  his  magnificence  grew  as 
wearisome  to  him  as  his  poverty  had  been  before  ; and  not  one 
of  the  doctors  whom  he  consulted  could  give  him  a penny  wortli 
of  consolation. 

Then  he  grew  outrageous  in  his  demands  u[)on  the  Devil, 
and  put  him  to  all  sorts  of  absurd  and  ridiculous  tasks ; but 
they  were  all  punctually  performed,  until  Simon  could  invent 
no  new  ones,  and  the  Devil  sat  all  day  with  his  bands  in  his 
pockets  doing  nothing. 

One  da}’,  Simon’s  confessor  came  bounding  into  the  room, 
with  the  greatest  glee.  ‘‘My  friend,”  said  he,  “I  have  it ! 
Eureka ! — I have  found  it.  Send  the  Pope  a hundred  thou- 
sand crowns,  build  a new  Jesuit  college  at  Rome,  give  a hun- 
dred gold  candlesticks  to  St.  Peter’s  ; and  tell  his  Holiness 
you  will  double  all,  if  he  will  give  you  absolution  ! ” 

Gambouge  caught  at  the  notion,  and  hurried  off  a courier 
to  Rome  ventre  a terre.  His  Holiness  agreed  to  the  request  of 
the  petition,  and  sent  him  an  absolution,  written  out  with  his 
own  fist,  and  all  in  due  form. 

“ Now,”  said  he,  “ foul  fiend,  I defy  you  ! arise,  Diabolus  ! 
your  contract  is  not  worth  a jot : the  Pope  has  absolved  me, 
and  I am  safe  on  the  road  to  salvation.”  In  a fervor  of  grati- 
tude he  clasped  the  hand  of  his  confessor,  and  embraced  him : 
tears  of  joy  ran  down  the  cheeks  of  these  good  men. 

The}^  heard  an  inordinate  roar  of  laughter,  and  there 
was  Diabolus  sitting  opposite  to  them,  holding  his  sides, 
and  lashing  his  tail  about,  as  if  he  would  have  gone  mad 
with  glee. 

“ Wh}’,”  said  he,  “what  nonsense  is  this!  do  you  suppose 
I care  about  that  ? ” and  he  tossed  the  Pope’s  missive  into  a 
corner.  “ M.  1’ Abbe  knows,”  he  said,  bowing  and  grinning, 
“ that  though  the  Pope’s  paper  may  pass  current  here,  it  is  not 
worth  twopence  in  our  country.  What  do  I care  about  the 
Pope’s  absolution?  You  might  just  as  well  be  absolved  by 
your  under  butler.” 

“ Egad,”  said  the  Abbe,  “ the  rogue  is  right  — I quite  for- 
got the  fact,  which  he  points  out  clearly  enough.” 

“No,  no,  Gambouge,”  continued  Diabolus,  with  horrid 
familiarity,  “go  thy  wa}’s,  old  fellow,  that  cock  wonH  fight.’' 
And  he  retired  up  the  chimney,  chuckling  at  his  wit  and  his 
triumph.  Gambouge  heard  his  tail  scuttling  all  the  way  up, 
as  if  he  had  been  a sweeper  by  profession. 

Simon  was  left  in  that  condition  of  grief  in  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  newspapers,  cities  and  nations  are  found  when  a 


68 


THE  PARTS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


murder  is  committed,  or  a lord  ill  of  the  gout  — a situation, 
we  saj’,  more  easy  to  imagine  than  to  describe. 

To  add  to  his  woes,  Mrs.  Gambouge,  who  was  now  first 
made  acquainted  with  his  compact,  and  its  probable  conse- 
quences, raised  such  a storm  about  his  ears,  as  made  him  wish 
almost  that  his  seven  years  were  expired.  She  screamed,  she 
scolded,  she  swore,  she  wept,  she  went  into  such  fits  of  hys- 
terics, that  poor  Gambouge,  who  had  completely  knocked  under 
to  her,  was  worn  out  of  his  life.  He  w^as  allowed  no  rest, 
night  or  da3* : he  moped  about  his  fine  house,  solitaiy  and 
wretched,  and  cursed  his  stars  that  he  ever  had  married  the 
butcher’s  daughter. 

It  wanted  six  months  of  the  time. 

A sudden  and  desperate  resolution  seemed  all  at  once  to 
have  taken  possession  of  Simon  Gambouge.  He  called  his 
family  and  his  friends  together  — he  gave  one  of  the  greatest 
feasts  that  ever  was  known  in  the  cit}'  of  Paris  — he  gaylj"  pre- 
sided at  one  end  of  his  table,  while  Mrs.  Gam.,  splendidly 
arrayed,  gave  herself  airs  at  the  other  extremit3\ 

After  dinner,  using  the  customaiy  formula,  he  called  upon 
Diabolus  to  appear.  The  old  ladies  screamed,  and  hoped  he 
would  not  appear  naked  ; the  young  ones  tittered,  and  longed 
to  see  the  monster : everybod3"  was  pale  with  expectation  and 
affright. 

A veiy  quiet,  gentlemanh"  man,  neatl3"  dressed  in  black, 
made  his  appearance,  to  the  surprise  of  all  present,  and  bowed 
all  round  to  the  company.  “ I will  not  show  my  credentials,’' 
he  said,  blushing,  and  pointing  to  his  hoofs,  which  were  clev- 
erly hidden  by  his  pumps  and  shoe-buckles,  “ unless  the  ladies 
absolutely  wish  it ; but  I am  the  person  you  want,  Mr.  Gam- 
bouge ; pra3'  tell  me  what  is  3'our  will.” 

“ You  know,”  said  that  gentleman,  in  a stately  and  de- 
termined voice,  “ that  you  are  bound  to  me,  according  to  our 
agreement,  for  six  months  to  come.” 

“ I am,”  replied  the  new  comer. 

“ You  are  to  do  all  that  I ask,  whatsoever  it  ma3^  be,  or  3^011 
forfeit  the  bond  which  I gave  3’ou  ? ” 

“ It  is  true.” 

“ You  declare  this  before  the  present  company?” 

“ Upon  m3'  honor,  as  a gentleman,”  said  Diabolus,  bowing, 
and  laying  his  hand  upon  his  waistcoat. 

A whisper  of  applause  ran  round  the  room : all  were 
charmed  with  the  bland  manners  of  the  fascinating  stranger. 

“ My  love,”  continued  Gambouge,  mildl3'  addressing  his 


THE  PAINTER’S  BARGAIN. 


69 


lady,  “ will  you  be  so  polite  as  to  step  this  way?  You  know  I 
must  go  soon,  and  I am  anxious,  before  this  noble  eompany, 
to  make  a provision  for  one  who,  in  sickness  as  in  health,  in 
poverty  as  in  riches,  has  been  my  truest  and  fondest  com- 
panion.” 

Gambouge  mopped  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief — all  the 
company  did  likewise.  Diabolus  sobbed  audibly,  and  Mrs. 
Gambouge  sidled  up  to  her  husband’s  side,  and  took  him  ten- 
derl}^  by  the  hand.  ''  Simon  ! ” said  she,  “is  it  true?  and  do 
3'ou  reall}'  love  your  Griskinissa?  ” 

Simon  continued  solemnly:  “ Come  hither,  Diabolus;  you 
are  bound  to  obe}’  me  in  all  things  for  the  six  months  during 
which  our  contract  has  to  run  ; take,  then,  Griskinissa  Gam- 
bougc,  live  alone  with  her  for  half  a year,  never  leave  her  from 
morning  till  night,  obey  all  her  caprices,  follow  all  her  whims, 
and  listen  to  all  the  abuse  which  falls  from  her  infernal  tongue. 
Do  this,  and  I ask  no  more  of  you  ; I will  deliver  myself  up  at 
the  appointed  time.” 

Not  Lord  G , when  Hogged  Iw'  Lord  B , in  the 

Iloiise, — not  Mr.  Cartlitch,  of  Astley’s  Amphitheatre,  in  his 
most  pathetic  passages,  could  look  more  crestfallen,  and  howl 
more  hideousl}',  than  Diabolus  did  now.  “ Take  another  year, 
Gambouge,”  screamed  he;  “ twm  more  — ten  more  — a cen- 
tuiy ; roast  me  on  Lawrence’s  gridiron,  boil  me  in  hoi}-  water, 
but  don’t  ask  that : don’t,  don’t  bid  me  live  with  Mrs.  Gam- 
bouge ! ” 

Simon  smiled  sternly.  “ I have  said  it,”  he  cried;  “do 
this,  or  our  contract  is  at  an  end.” 

The  Devil,  at  this,  grinned  so  horribly  that  every  drop  of 
beer  in  the  house  turned  sour : he  gnashed  his  teeth  so  fright- 
fully that  every  person  in  the  company  wellnigh  fainted  with 
the  cholic.  He  slapped  down  the  great  parchment  upon  the 
floor,  trampled  upon  it  madly,  and  lashed  it  with  his  hoofs  and 
his  tail : at  last,  spreading  out  a mighty  pair  of  wings  as  wide  as 
from  here  to  Regent  Street,  he  slapped  Gambouge  with  his  tail 
over  one  eye,  and  vanished,  abruptly,  through  the  keyhole. 

Gambouge  screamed  with  pain  and  started  up.  “ A'ou 
drunken,  lazy  scoundrel ! ” cried  a shrill  and  well-known  voice, 
“ you  have  been  asleep  these  two  hours  : ” and  here  he  received 
another  terrific  box  on  the  ear. 

It  was  too  true,  he  had  fallen  asleep  at  his  work  ; find  the 
beautiful  vision  had  been  dispelled  by  the  thumps  of  the  tipsy 
Griskinissa.  Nothing  remained  to  corroborate  his  story,  ex- 


70 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


cept  the  bladder  of  lake,  and  this  was  spirted  all  over  his 
waistcoat  and  breeches. 

“ I wish,”  said  the  poor  fellow,  rubbing  his  tingling  cheeks, 
^ ‘ that  dreams  were  true  ; ” and  he  went  to  work  again  at  his 
portrait. 

My  last  accounts  of  Gambouge  are,  that  he  has  left  the  arts, 
and  is  footman  in  a small  family.  Mrs.  Gam.  takes  in  wash- 
ing ; and  it  is  said  that  her  continual  dealings  with  soap-suds 
and  hot  water  have  been  the  only  things  in  life  which  have  kept 
her  from  spontaneous  combustion. 


4 


CARTOUCHE 


I HAVE  been  much  interested  with  an  account  of  the  exploits 
of  Monsieur  Louis  Dominic  Cartouche,  and  as  Newgate  and 
the  highway's  are  so  much  the  fashion  with  us  in  England,  we 
may  be  allowed  to  look  abroad  for  histories  of  a similar  ten- 
dency. It  is  pleasant  to  lind  that  virtue  is  cosmopolite,  and 
may  " exist  among  wooden-shoed  Papists  as  well  as  honest 
Church-of-England  men. 

Louis  Dominic  w^as  born  in  a quarter  of  Paris  called  the 
Courtille,  says  the  historian  whose  work  lies  before  me  ; — born 
in  the  Courtille,  and  in  the  year  1693.  Another  biographer 
asserts  that  he  was  born  two  3'ears  later,  and  in  the  Marais  ; 
— of  respectable  parents,  of  course.  Think  of  the  talent  that 
our  two  countries  produced  about  this  time : Marlborough, 
Villars,  Mandrin,  Turpin,  Boileau,  Dryden,  Swift,  Addison, 
Moliere,  Racine,  Jack  Sheppard,  and  Louis  Cartouche,  — all 
famous  within  the  same  twenty  3'ears,  and  fighting,  writing, 
robbing  a Venvi ! 

Well,  Marlborough  was  no  chicken  when  he  began  to  show 
his  genius  ; Swift  was  but  a dull,  idle,  college  lad  ; but  if  we 
read  the  histories  of  some  other  great  men  mentioned  in  the 
above  list  — I mean  the  thieves,  especially  — we  shall  find  that 
they  all  commenced  veiy  early : the3'  showed  a passion  for 
their  art,  as  little  Raphael  did,  or  little  Mozart ; and  the  his- 
tory of  Cartouche’s  knaveries  begins  almost  with  his  breeches. 

Dominic’s  parents  sent  him  to  school  at  the  college  of  Cler- 
mont (now  Louis  le  Grand)  ; and  although  it  has  never  been 
discovered  that  the  Jesuits,  who  directed  that  seminary,  ad- 
vanced him  much  in  classical  or  theological  knowledge,  Cai- 
touche,  in  revenge,  showed,  by  repeated  instances,  his  own 


72 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


natural  bent  and  genius,  which  no  difficulties  were  strong 
enough  to  overcome.  Plis  first  great  action  on  record,  although 
not  successful  in  the  end,  and  tinctured  with  the  innocence  of 
youth,  is  yet  highly  creditable  to  him.  He  made  a general 
swoop  of  a hundred  and  twenty  nightcaps  belonging  to  his 
companions,  and  disposed  of  them  to  his  satisfaction  ; but  as  it 
was  discovered  that  of  all  the  youths  in  the  college  of  Clermont, 
he  only  was  the  possessor  of  a cap  to  sleep  in,  suspicion  (which, 
alas  ! was  confirmed)  immediately  fell  upon  him  : and  b}’  this 
little  piece  of  youthful  naivete^  a scheme,  prettily  conceived 
and  smartly  performed,  was  rendered  naught. 

Cartouche  had  a wonderful  love  for  good  eating,  and  put  all 
the  apple- women  and  cooks,  who  came  to  suppl^'  the  students, 
under  contribution.  Not  always,  however,  desirous  of  robbing 
these,  he  used  to  deal  with  them,  occasionally,  on  honest  prin- 
ciples of  barter ; that  is,  wdienever  he  could  get  hold  of  his 
schoolfellows’  knives,  books,  rulers,  or  playthings,  which  he 
used  fairl}'  to  exchange  for  tarts  and  gingerbread. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  presiding  genius  of  evil  was  determined 
to  patronize  this  3’oung  man  ; for  before  he  had  been  long  at 
college,  and  soon  ‘after  he  had,  with  the  greatest  difficulty, 
escaped  from  the  nightcap  scrape,  an  opportunity  occurred  by 
which  he  was  enabled  to  gratify’'  both  his  propensities  at  once, 
and  not  only  to  steal,  but  to  steal  sweetmeats.  It  happened 
that  the  principal  of  the  college  received  some  pots  of  Narbonne 
hone}",  which  came  under  the  e}xs  of  Cartouche,  and  in  which 
that  3'oung  gentleman,  as  soon  as  ever  he  saw  them,  determined 
to  put  his  fingers.  The  president  of  the  college  put  aside  his 
hone}"-pots  in  an  apartment  witliin  his  own  ; to  which,  except 
b}’  the  one  door  which  led  into  the  room  which  his  reverence 
usuall}'  occupied,  there  was  no  outlet.  There  was  no  chimney 
in  the  room ; and  the  windows  looked  into  the  court,  where 
there  was  a porter  at  night,  and  where  crowds  passed  by"  day\ 
What  was  Cartouche  to  clo? — have  the  honey  he  must. 

Over  this  cliamber,  which  contained  what  his  soul  longed 
after,  and  over  the  president’s  rooms,  diere  ran  a set  of  unoc- 
cupied garrets,  into  which  the  dexterous  Cartouche  penetrated. 
These  were  divided  from  the  rooms  below,  according  to  the 
fashion  of  those  days,  by  a set  of  large  beams,  which  reached 
across  the  whole  building,  and  across  which  rude  planks  were 
laid,  which  formed  the  ceiling  of  the  lower  story  and  the  floor 
of  the  upper.  Some  of  these  planks  did  y^oung  Cartouche  re- 
move ; and  having  descended  by"  means  of  a rope,  tied  a couple 
of  others  to  the  neck  of  the  honey'-pots,  climbed  back  again, 


CARTOUCHE. 


73 


and  drew  up  his  prey  in  safet}’.  He  then  cnnningty  fixed  the 
planks  again  in  their  old  places,  and  retired  to  gorge  himself 
upon  his  booty.  And,  now,  see  the  punishment  of  avarice  ! 
Everybody  knows  that  the  brethren  of  the  order  of  Jesus  are 
bound  by  a vow  to  have  no  more  than  a certain  small  sum 
of  money  in  their  possession.  The  principal  of  the  college  of 
Clermont  had  amassed  a larger  sum,  in  defiance  of  this  rule  : 
and  where  do  you  think  the  old  gentleman  had  hidden  it?  In 
the  lione3'-pots  ! As  Cartouche  dug  his  spoon  into  one  of  them, 
he  brought  out,  besides  a quantit}'  of  golden  hone^',  a couple  of 
golden  loiiis,  which,  with  ninety-eight  more  of  their  fellows, 
were  comfortably  hidden  in  the  pots.  Little  Dominic,  who, 
before,  had  cut  rather  a poor  figure  among  his  fellow-students, 
now  appeared  in  as  line  clothes  as  any  of  them  could  boast  of; 
and  when  asked  by  his  parents,  on  going  home,  how  he  came 
by  them,  said  that  a young  nobleman  of  his  schoolfellows  had 
taken  a violent  fanc}'  to  him,  and  made  him  a present  of  a 
couple  of  his  suits.  Cartouche  the  elder,  good  man,  went  to 
thank  the  young  nobleman  ; but  none  such  could  be  found,  and 
3'oung  Cartouche  disdained  to  give  an}-  explanation  of  his  man- 
ner of  gaining  the  mone^'. 

Here,  again,  we  have  to  regret  and  remark  the  inadvertence 
of  youth.  Cartouche  lost  a hundred  louis  — for  what?  For  a 
pot  of  honev  not  worth  a couple  of  shillings.  Had  he  fished 
out  the  pieces,  and  replaced  the  pots  and  the  hone}’,  he  might 
have  been  safe,  and  a respectable  citizen  all  his  life  after.  The 
principal  would  not  have  dared  to  confess  the  loss  of  his  money, 
and  did  not,  openly ; but  he  vowed  vengeance  against  the 
stealer  of  his  sweetmeat,  and  a rigid  search  was  made.  Car- 
touche, as  usual,  was  fixed  upon  ; and  in  the  tick  of  his  bed, 
lo  ! there  were  found  a couple  of  empty  honey-pots  ! From 
this  scrape  there  is  no  knowing  how  he  would  have  escaped, 
had  not  the  president  himself  been  a little  anxious  to  hush  the 
matter  up ; and  accordingly,  young  Cartouche  was  made  to 
disgorge  the  residue  of  his  ill-gotten  gold  pieces,  old  Cartouche 
made  up  the  deficiency,  and  his  son  was  allowed  to  remain  un- 
punished— until  the  next  time. 

This,  you  may  fancy,  was  not  very  long  in  coming ; and 
though  history  has  not  made  us  acquainted  with  the  exact  crime 
which  Louis  Dominic  next  committed,  it  must  have  been  a 
serious  one  ; for  Cartouche,  who  had  borne  philosophically  all 
the  whippings  and  punishments  which  were  administered  to  him 
at  college,  did  not  dare  to  face  that  one  which  his  indignaiA 
father  had  in  pickle  for  him.  As  he  w^as  coming  home  from 


74 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


school,  on  the  first  day  after  his  crime,  when  he  received  per* 
mission  to  go  abroad,  one  of  his  brothers,  who  was  on  the 
iook-out  for  him,  met  him  at  a short  distance  from  home,  and 
told  him  what  was  in  preparation  ; which  so  frightened  this 
young  thief,  that  he  declined  returning  home  altogether,  and  set 
out  upon  the  wide  world  to  shift  for  himself  as  he  could. 

Undoubted  as  his  genius  was,  he  had  not  arrived  at  the  full 
exercise  of  it,  and  his  gains  were  by  no  means  equal  to  his  ap- 
petite. In  w^hatever  professions  he  tried,  — whether  he  joined 
the  gipsies,  which  he  did,  — whether  he  picked  pockets  on  the 
Pont  Neuf,  which  occupation  history  attributes  to  him,  — poor 
Cartouche  was  always  hungrj^  Hungry  and  ragged,  he  wan- 
dered from  one  place  and  profession  to  another,  and  regretted 
the  hone}^-pots  at  Clermont,  and  the  comfortable  soup  and 
houilli  at  home. 

Cartouche  had  an  uncle,  a kind  man,  who  was  a merchant, 
and  had  dealings  at  Rouen.  One  daj',  walking  on  the  quays 
of  that  city,  this  gentleman  saw  a very  miserable,  dirty,  starv- 
ing lad,  who  had  just  made  a pounce  upon  some  bones  and  tur- 
nip-peelings, that  had  been  flung  out  on  the  qua}",  and  was 
eating  them  as  greedil}^  as  if  they  had  been  turkeys  and  truf- 
fles. The  worthy  man  examined  the  lad  a little  closer.  O 
heavens  ! it  was  their  runaway  prodigal  — it  was  little  Louis 
Dominic ! The  merchant  was  touched  by  his  case ; and  for- 
getting the  nightcaps,  the  honey-pots,  and  the  rags  and  dirt 
of  little  Louis,  took  him  to  his  arms,  and  kissed  and  hugged 
him  with  the  tenderest  affection.  Louis  kissed  and  hugged 
too,  and  blubbered  a great  deal : he  was  very  repentant,  as  a 
man  often  is  when  he  is  hungry  ; and  he  went  home  with  his 
uncle,  and  his  peace  was  made ; and  his  mother  got  him  new 
clothes,  and  filled  his  bell}",  and  for  a while  Louis  was  as  good 
a son  as  might  be. 

But  why  attempt  to  balk  the  progress  of  genius?  Louis’s 
was  not  to  be  kept  down.  He  was  sixteen  years  of  age  by 
this  time  — a smart,  lively  young  fellow,  and,  what  is  more, 
desperately  enamored  of  a lovely  washerwoman.  To  be  suc- 
cessful in  your  love,  as  Louis  knew,  you  must  have  something 
more  than  mere  flames  and  sentiment ; — a washer,  or  any 
other  woman,  cannot  live  upon  sighs  only ; but  must  have 
new  gowns  and  caps,  and  a necklace  every  now  and  then,  and 
a few  handkerchiefs  and  silk  stockings,  and  a treat  into  the 
country  or  to  the  play.  Now,  how  are  all  these  things  to  be 
had  without  money?  Cartouche  saw  at  once  that  it  was  im- 
possible ; and  as  his  father  would  give  him  none,  he  was 


CARTOUCHE. 


75 


obliged  tc  look  for  it  elsewhere.  He  took  to  his  old  courses, 
and  lifted  a purse  here,  and  a watch  there  ; and  found,  more- 
over, an  accommodating  gentleman,  who  took  the  wares  off  his 
hands. 

This  gentleman  introduced  him  into  a veiy  select  and  agree- 
able society,  in  whicli  Cartouche’s  merit  l)egan  speedily  to  be 
recognized,  and  in  which  he  learnt  how  pleasant  it  is  in  life  to 
have  friends  to  assist  one,  and  how  much  ma}'  be  done  by  a 
proper  division  of  labor.  M.  Cartouche,  in  fact,  formed  part 
of  a regular  company  or  gang  of  gentlemen,  who  w^ere  asso- 
ciated together  for  the  purpose  of  making  war  on  the  public 
and  the  law. 

Cartouche  had  a lovely  young  sister,  who  was  to  be  married 
to  a rich  3’oung  gentleman  from  the  provinces.  As  is  the  fash- 
ion in  France,  the  parents  had  arranged  the  match  among 
themselves ; and  the  young  people  had  never  met  until  just 
before  the  time  appointed  for  the  marriage,  when  the  bride- 
groom came  up  to  Paris  with  his  title-deeds,  and  settlements, 
and  money.  Now  there  can  hardl3"  be  found  in  histoiy  a finer 
instance  of  devotion  than  Cartouche  now  exhibited.  He  went 
to  his  captain,  explained  the  matter  to  him,  and  actuall}^  for 
the  good  of  his  countiy,  as  it  were  (the  thieves  might  be  called 
his  countiy),  sacrificed  his  sister’s  husband’s  propertj".  Infor- 
mations were  taken,  the  house  of  the  bridegroom  was  recon- 
noitred, and,  one  night.  Cartouche,  in  company  with  some 
chosen  friends,  made  his  first  visit  to  the  house  of  his  brother- 
in-law.  All  the  people  were  gone  to  bed  ; and,  doubtless,  for 
fear  of  disturbing  the  porter.  Cartouche  and  his  companions 
spared  him  the  trouble  of  opening  the  door,  b}-  ascending 
quietl}'  at  the  window.  They  arrived  at  the  room  where  the 
bridegroom  kept  his  great  chest,  and  set  industrious^  to  work, 
filing  and  picking  the  locks  which  defended  the  treasure. 

The  bridegroom  slept  in  the  next  room ; but  however  ten- 
derl}^  Cartouche  and  his  workmen  handled  their  tools,  from 
fear  of  disturbing  his  slumbers,  their  benevolent  design  was 
disappointed,  for  awaken  him  the}^  did  ; and  quietly  slipping  out 
of  bed,  he  came  to  a place  where  he  had  a complete  view  of  all 
that  was  going  on.  He  did  not  ciy  out,  or  frighten  himself 
sillily ; but,  on  the  contraiy,  contented  himself  with  watching 
the  countenances  of  the  robbers,  so  that  he  might  recognize 
them  on  another  occasion  ; and,  though  an  avaricious  man, 
he  did  not  feel  the  slightest  anxiet}’  about  his  mone^^-chest ; 
for  the  fact  is,  he  had  removed  all  the  cash  and  papers  the 
day  before. 


76 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


As  soon,  however,  as  they  had  broken  all  the  locks,  and 
found  the  nothing  which  la3'  at  the  bottom  of  the  chest,  he 
shouted  with  such  a loud  voice,  “Here,  Thomas! — John!  — 
officer  ! — keep  the  gate,  fire  at  the  rascals  I ” that  the\' , incon- 
tinentl}'  taking  fright,  skipped  nimbly  out  of  window,  and  left 
the  house  free. 

Cartouche,  after  this,  did  not  care  to  meet  his  brother-in- 
law,  but  eschewed  all  those  occasions  on  which  the  latter  was 
to  be  present  at  his  father’s  house.  The  evening  before  the 
marriage  came  ; and  then  his  father  insisted  upon  his  appear- 
ance among  the  other  relatives  of  the  bride’s  and  bridegroom’s 
families,  who  were  all  to  assemble  and  make  merry.  Cartouche 
was  obliged  to  yield ; and  brought  wfith  him  one  or  two  of  his 
companions,  who  had  been,  by"  the  way-,  present  in  the  affair 
of  the  empty  money-boxes  ; and  though  he  never  fancied  that 
there  was  any  danger  in  meeting  his  brother-in-law,  for  he  had 
no  idea  that  he  had  been  seen  on  the  night  of  the  attack,  with 
a natural  modesty,  which  did  him  really"  credit,  he  kept  out  of 
the  young  bridegroom’s  sight  as  much  as  he  could,  and  showed 
no  desire  to  be  presented  to  him.  At  supper,  however,  as  he 
was  sneaking  modestly-  down  to  a side-table,  his  father  shouted 
after  him,  “Ho,  Dominic,  come  hither,  and  sit  opposite  to 
your  brother-in-law : ” which  Dominic  did,  his  friends  follow- 
ing. The  bridegroom  pledged  him  very-  gracefully  in  a bum- 
per ; and  was  in  the  act  of  making  him  a pretty^  speech,  on  the 
honor  of  an  alliance  with  such  a family",  and  on  the  pleasures 
of  brother-in-lawship  in  general,  when,  looking  in  his  face  — 
ye  gods  ! he  saw  the  very-  man  who  had  been  filing  at  his 
money"-chest  a few  nights  ago ! By  his  side,  too,  sat  a couple 
more  of  the  gang.  The  poor  fellow  turned  deadly  pale  and 
sick,  and,  setting  his  glass  down,  ran  quickly  out  of  the  room, 
for  he  thought  he  was  in  company  of  a whole  gang  of  robbers. 
And  when  he  got  home,  he  wrote  a letter  to  the  elder  Car- 
touche, humbly  declining  any-  connection  with  his  family. 

Cartouche  the  elder,  of  course,  angrily  asked  the  reason  of 
such  an  abrupt  dissolution  of  the  engagement ; and  then,  much 
to  his  horror,  heard  of  his  eldest  son’s  doings.  “You  would 
not  have  me  marry-  into  such  a family-?”  said  the  ex-bride- 
groom. And  old  Cartouche,  an  honest  old  citizen,  confessed, 
with  a hea\\y  heart,  that  he  would  not.  What  was  he  to  do 
with  the  lad?  He  did  not  like  to  ask  for  a lettre  de  cachet^  and 
shut  him  up  in  the  Bastile.  He  determined  to  give  him  a 
year’s  discipline  at  the  monastery-  of  St.  Lazare. 

But  how  to  catch  the  y^oung  gentleman?  Old  Cartouche 


CARTOUCHE. 


77 


knew  that,  were  he  to  tell  his  son  of  the  scheme,  the  latter 
would  never  obe^^  and,  therefore,  he  determined  to  be  very 
(amning.  He  told  Dominic  that  he  was  about  to  make  a heavy 
bargain  with  the  hithers,  and  should  require  a witness  ; so  the}^ 
stepped  into  a carriage  together,  and  drove  unsuspectingly  to 
the  Rue  St.  Denis.  But,  when  they  arrived  near  the  convent. 
Cartouche  saw  several  ominous  figures  gathering  round  the 
coach,  and  felt  that  his  doom  was  sealed.  However,  he  made 
as  if  he  knew  nothing  of  the  conspirac}^ ; and  the  carriage  drew 
up,  and  his  father  descended,  and,  bidding  him  wait  for  a min- 
ute in  the  coach,  promised  to  return  to  him.  Cartouche  looked 
out ; on  the  other  side  of  the  way  half-a  dozen  men  were  posted, 
evidently  with  the  intention  of  arresting  him. 

Cartouche  now  performed  a great  and  celebrated  stroke  of 
genius,  which,  if  he  had  not  been  professionally  emplo^^ed  in 
the  morning,  lie  never  could  have  executed.  He  had  in  his 
pocket  a piece  of  linen,  which  he  had  laid  hold  of  at  the  door 
of  some  shop,  and  from  which  he  quickly  tore  three  suitable 
stripes.  One  he  tied  round  his  head,  after  the  fashion  of  a 
nightcap  ; a second  round  his  waist,  like  an  apron  ; and  with 
the  third  he  covered  his  hat,  a round  one,  with  a large  brim. 
His  coat  and  his  periwig  he  left  behind  him  in  the  carriage ; 
and  when  he  stepped  out  from  it  (which  he  did  without  asking 
the  coachman  to  let  down  the  steps),  he  bore  exactl}’  the  ap- 
pearance of  a cook’s  bo}'  carrying  a dish ; and  with  this  he 
slipped  through  the  exempts  quite  unsuspected,  and  bade  adieu 
to  the  Lazarists  and  ’ his  honest  father,  who  came  out  speedily 
to  seek  him,  and  was  not  a little  anno^^ed  to  find  only  his  coat 
and  wig. 

With  that  coat  and  wig.  Cartouche  left  home,  father,  friends, 
conscience,  remorse,  society,  behind  him.  He  discovered  (like 
a great  number  of  other  philosophers  and  poets,  when  they 
have  committed  rascall}^  actions)  that  the  world  was  all  going 
wrong,  and  he  quarrelled  with  it  outright.  One  of  the  first 
stories  told  of  the  illustrious  Cartouche,  when  he  became  pro- 
fessionally and  openly  a robber,  redounds  highly  to  his  credit, 
and  shows  that  he  knew  ho^w  to  take  advantage  of  the  occasion, 
and  how  much  he  had  improved  in  the  course  of  a very  few 
years’  experience.  His  courage  and  ingenuity’  were  vastly 
admired  b}^  his  friends ; so  much  so,  that,  one  da}",  the  captain 
of  the  band  thought  fit  to  compliment  him,  and  vowed  that 
when  he  (the  captain)  died.  Cartouche  should  infallibly  be 
called  to  the  command-in-chief.  This  conversation,  so  flat- 
tering to  Cartouche,  was  carried  on  between  the  two  gentlemen 


78 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


as  they  were  walking,  one  night,  on  the  quays  by  the  side  of  the 
Seine.  Cartouche,  when  the  captain  made  the  last  remark, 
bliisliingh^  protested  against  it,  and  pleaded  his  extreme  3^onth 
as  a reason  his  comrades  could  never  put  entire  trust  in 
him.  “ Psha,  man!”  said  the  captain,  “ tlw  youth  is  in  thy 
favor ; thou  wilt  live  011I3’  the  longer  to  lead  thy  troops  to 
victory.  As  for  strength,  bravery,  and  cunning,  wert  thou  as 
old  as  Methuselah,  thou  couldst  not  be  better  provided  than 
thou  art  now,  at  eighteen.”  What  was  the  reply  of  Monsieur 
Cartouche?  He  answered,  not  by  words,  but  by  actions. 
Drawing  his  knife  from  his  girdle,  he  instantly  dug  it  into  the 
captain’s  left  side,  as  nrear  his  heart  as  possible  ; and  then, 
seizing  that,  imprudent  commander,  precipitated  him  violently 
into  the  waters  of  the  Seine,  to  keep  company  with  the  gud- 
geons and  river-gods.  When  he  returned  to  the  band,  and 
recounted  how  the  captain  had  basely  attempted  to  assassinate 
him,  and  how  he,  on  the  contrary,  had,  b3"  exertion  of  superior 
skill,  overcome  the  captain,  not  one  of  the  society  belieA^ed  a 
word  of  his  histoiy  ; but  the3^  elected  him  captain  forthwith.  I 
think  his  Excellenc3^  Don  Rafael  Maroto,  the  • pacificator  of 
Spain,  is  an  amiable  character,  for  whom  history  has  not  been 
written  in  vain. 

Being  arrived  at  this  exalted  position,  there  is  no  end  of  the 
feats  which  Cartouche  performed ; and  his  band  reached  to 
such  a pitch  of  glory,  that  if  there  had  been  a hundred  thousand, 
instead  of  a hundred  of  them,  who  knows  but  that  a new  and 
popular  d3masty  might  not  have  been  founded,  and  “Louis 
Dominic,  premier  Empereur  des  Frangais,”  might  have  per- 
formed innumerable  glorious  actions,  and  fixed  himself  in  the 
hearts  of  his  people,  just  as  other  monarchs  have  done,  a hun- 
dred 3'ears  after  Cartouche’s  death. 

A stor3"  similar  to  the  above,  and  equally  moral,  is  that  of 
Cartouche,  who,  in  company  with  two  other  gentlemen,  robbed 
the  coche^  or  packet-boat,  from  Melun,  where  they  took  a good 
quantity  of  boot3%  — making  the  passengers  lie  down  on  the 
decks,  and  rifling  them  at  leisure.  “This  mone3^  will  be  but 
very  little  among  three,”  whispered  Cartouche  to  his  neighbor, 
as  the  three  conquerors  were  making  merry  over  their  gains ; 
“ if  3’ou  were  but  to  pull  the  trigger  of  3^ur  pistol  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  3’our  comrade’s  ear,  perhaps  it  might  go  ofl*,  and 
then  there  would  be  but  two  of  us  to  share.”  Strangely  enough, 
as  Cartouche  said,  the  pistol  did  go  off,  and  No.  3 perished. 
“ Give  him  another  ball,”  said  Cartouche  ; and  another  was 
fired  into  him.  But  no  sooner  had  Cartouche’s  comrade  dis- 


CARTOUCHE. 


79 


charged  both  his  pistols,  than  Cartouche  himself,  seized  with  a 
furious  indignation,  drew  his:  “Learn,  monster,”  cried  he, 
“not  to  be  so  greedy  of  gold,  and  perish,  the  victim  of  thy 
disloyalty  and  avarice  ! ” So  Cartouche  slew  the  second  robber  ; 
and  there  is  no  man  in  Europe  who  can  say  that  the  latter  did 
not  merit  well  his  punishment. 

I could  fill  volumes,  and  not  mere  sheets  of  paper,  witlz 
tales  of  the  triumphs  of  Cartouche  and  his  band  ; how  he  robbeC 

the  Countess  of  O , going  to  Dijon,  in  her  coach,  and  how 

the  Countess  fell  in  love  with  him,  and  was  faithful  to  him  ever 
after ; how,  when  the  lieutenant  of  [)olice  offered  a reward  of 
a hundred  pistoles  to  any  man  who  would  bring  Cartouche  before 
him,  a noble  Marquess,  in  a coach  and  six,  drove  up  to  the 
hotel  of  the  police  ; and  the  noble  Marquess,  desiring  to  see 
Monsieur  de  la  Reynie,  on  matters  of  the  highest  moment, 
alone,  the  latter  introduced  him  into  his  private  cabinet ; and 
how,  when  there,  the  Marquess  drew  from  his  pocket  a long, 
curiously  shaped  dagger:  “Look  at  this.  Monsieur  de  la 
Reynie,”  said  he  ; “ this  dagger  is  poisoned  ! ” 

“Is  it  possible?  ” said  M.  de  la  Reynie. 

“ A prick  of  it  would  do  for  any  man,”  said  the  Marquess. 

“ You  don’t  say  so  ! ” said  M.  de  la  Reynie. 

“I  do,  though;  and,  what  is  more,”  says  the  Marquess,  in 
a terrible  voice,  “if  you  do  not  instantly  lay  yourself  flat  on 
the  ground,  with  your  face  towards  it,  and  your  hands  crossed 
over  your  back,  or  if  3*011  make  the  slightest  noise  or  crjq  I will 
" stick  this  poisoned  dagger  between  3*0111-  ribs,  as  sure  as  my 
name  is  Cartouche  ? ” 

At  the  sound  of  this  dreadful  name,  M.  de  la  Re3*nie  sunk 
incontinent^  down  on  his  stomach,  and  submitted  to  be  care- 
fulty  gagged  and  corded  ; after  which  Monsieur  Cartouche  laid 
his  hands  upon  all  the  mone3*  which  was  kept  in  the  lieutenant’s 
cabinet.  Alas  ! and  alas  ! maii3^  a stout  bailiff,  and  many  an 
honest  fellow  of  a sp3q  went,  for  that  da3*,  without  his  pa3*  and 
his  victuals. 

There  is  a stoiy  that  Cartouche  once  took  the  diligence  to 
Lille,  and  found  in  it  a certain  Abbe  Potter,  who  was  full  of 
indignation  against  this  monster  of  a Cartouche,  and  said  that 
when  he  went  back  to  Paris,  which  he  proposed  to  do  in  about 
a fortnight,  he  should  give  the  lieutenant  of  police  some  infor- 
mation, which  would  infallibl3*  lead  to  the  scoundrel’s  capture. 
But  poor  Potter  was  disappointed  in  his  designs  ; for,  before 
he  could  fulfll  them,  he  was  made  the  victim  of  Cartouche’s 
cruelty. 


80 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


A letter  came  to  the  lieutenant  of  police,  to  state  that  Car- 
touche had  travelled  to  Lille,  in  company  with  the  Abbe  de 
Potter,  of  that  town  ; that,  on  the  reverend  gentleman’s  return 
towards  Paris,  Cartouche  had  waylaid  him,  murdered  him,  taken 
his  papers,  and  w'ould  come  to  Paris  himself,  bearing  the  name 
and  clothes  of  the  unfortunate  Abbe,  by  the  Lille  coach,  on 
such  a da}^  The  Lille  coach  arrived,  w^as  surrounded  b}^  police 
agents  ; the  monster  Cartouche  was  there,  sure  enough,  in  the 
Abbe’s  guise.  He  was  seized,  bound,  flung  into  prison,  brought 
out  to  be  examined,  and,  on  examination,  found  to  be  no  other 
than  the  Abbe  Potter  himself ! It  is  pleasant  to  read  thus  of 
the  relaxations  of  great  men,  and  And  them  condescending  to 
joke  like  the  meanest  of  us. 

Another  diligence  adventure  is  recounted  of  the  famous 
Cartouche.  It  happened  that  he  met,  in  the  coach,  a young 
and  lovel}'  lady,  clad  in  widow’s  weeds,  and  bound  to  Paris, 
w'ith  a couple  of  servants.  The  poor  thing  was  the  widow  of  a 
rich  old  gentleman  of  Marseilles,  and  was  going  to  the  capital 
to  arrange  with  her  lawyers,  and  to  settle  her  husband’s  will. 
The  Count  de  Grinche  (for  so  her  fellow-passenger  was  called) 
was  quite  as  candid  as  the  prettj^  widow  had  been,  and  stated 
that  he  was  a captain  in  the  regiment  of  Nivernois ; that  he 
was  going  to  Paris  to  buy  a colonelcy,  which  his  relatives,  the 
Duke  de  Bouillon,  the  Prince  de  Montrnorenc}',  the  Comman- 
deur  de  la  Tremoille,  with  all  their  interest  at  court,  could  not 
fail  to  procure  for  him.  To  be  short,  in  the  course  of  the  four 
days’  journey,  the  Count  Louis  Dominic  de  Grinche  played  his 
cards  so  well,  that  the  poor  little  widow  half  forgot  her  late 
husband ; and  her  eyes  glistened  with  tears  as  the  Count 
kissed  her  hand  at  parting  — at  parting,  he  hoped,  only  for  a 
few  hours. 

Day  and  night  the  insinuating  Count  followed  her ; and 
when,  at  the  end  of  a fortnight,  and  in  the  midst  of  a tete-a-tete^ 
he  plunged,  one  morning,  suddenl}^  on  his  knees,  and  said, 
“ Leonora,  do}'ou  love  me?  ” the  poor  thing  heaved  the  gentlest, 
tenderest,  sweetest  sigh  in  the  world  ; and,  sinking  her  blushing 
head  on  his  shoulder,  whispered,  “Oh,  Dominic,  je  t’aime  ! 
Ah!”  said  she,  “ how  noble  is  it  of  my  Dominic  to  take  me 
with  the  little  I have,  and  he  so  rich  a nobleman  I ” The  fact 
is,  the  old  Baron’s  titles  and  estates  had  passed  aw^ay  to  his 
nephews  ; his  dowager  was  011I3'  left  with  three  hundred  thou- 
sand livres,  in  rentes  sur  Vetat  — a handsome  sum,  but  nothing 
to  compare  to  the  rent-roll  of  Count  Dominic,  Count  de  la 
Grinche,  Seigneur  de  la  Haute  Pigre,  Baron  de  la  Bigorne  ; he 


CARTOUCHE. 


81 


had  estates  and  wealth  which  might  authorize  him  to  aspire  to 
the  hand  of  a duchess,  at  least. 

The  unlbi'tunate  widow  never  for  a moment  suspected  the 
cruel  trick  that  was  al)out  to  be  played  on  her ; and,  at  the 
request  of  her  ailianced  husband,  sold  out  her  monejq  and  real- 
ized it  in  g(dd,  to  1)e  made  over  to  him  on  the  da}'  when  the 
contract  was  to  be  signed.  The  da}^  arrived ; and,  according 
to  the  custom  in  France,  the  relations  of  l)oth  parties  attended. 
The  widow’s  relatives,  though  respectable,  were  not  of  the  first 
nobilit}',  being  chiefly  persons  of  tlie  Jinance  or  the  robe:  there 
was  the  president  of  the  court  of  Arras,  and  his  lady  ; a farmer- 
general  ; a judge  of  a court  of  Paris  ; and  other  such  grave  and 
respectable  people.  As  for  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  la  Grinche, 
he  was  not  bound  for  names ; and,  having  the  whole  peerage  to 
choose  from,  brought  a host  of  Montmorencies,  Crequis,  De  la 
Tours,  and  Guises  at  his  back.  Ilis  homme  d’affaires  brought 
his  papers  in  a sack,  and  displaj'ed  the  plans  of  his  estates,  and 
the  titles  of  his  glorious  ancestry.  The  widow’s  lawyers  had 
her  money  in  sacks  ; and  between  the  gold  on  the  one  side, 
and  the  parchments  on  the  other,  lay  the  contract  which  was  to 
make  the  widow’s  three  hundred  thousand  francs  the  property 
of  the  Count  de  Grinche.  The  Count  de  la  Grinche  was  just 
about  to  sign  ; when  the  Alarslial  de  Villars,  stepping  up  to 
him,  said,  “Captain,  do  you  know  who  tlie  president  of  the 
court  of  Arras,  3'onder,  is?  It  is  old  Manasseh,  the  fence,  of 
Brussels.  I pawned  a gold  watch  to  him,  which  I stole  from 
Cadogan,  when  I was  with  Malbrook’s  army  in  Flanders.” 

Here  the  Due  de  la  Roche  Guyon  came  forward,  very  much 
alarmed.  “ Run  me  through  the  bod}' ! ” said  his  Grace,  “but 
the  comptroller-general’s  lady,  there,  is  no  other  than  that  old 

liag  of  a Margoton  who  keeps  the ” Here  the  Due  de  la 

Roche  Guyon’s  voice  fell. 

Cartouche  smiled  graciously,  and  walked  up  to  the  table. 
He  took  up  one  of  the  widow’s  fifteen  thousand  gold  pieces  ; — 
it  was  as  pretty  a bit  of  copper  as  you  could  wish  to  see.  “ My 
dear,”  said  he  politely,  “there  is  some  mistake  here,  and  this 
business  had  better  stop.” 

“ Count ! ” gasped  the  poor  widow. 

“Count  be  hanged!”  answered  the  bridegroom,  sternly, 
my  name  is  Cartouche  ! ” 


a 


ON  SOME  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE 
NOVELS. 

WITH  A PLEA  FOR  ROMANCES  IN  GENERAL. 


There  .is  an  old  story  of  a Spanish  court  painter,  who,  being 
pressed  for  money,  and  having  received  a piece  of  damask, 
which  he  was  to  wear  in  a state  procession,  pawned  the  damask, 
and  appeared,  at  the  show,  dressed  out  in  some  very  fine  sheets 
of  paper,  which  he  had  painted  so  as  exactly  to  resemble  silk. 
Nay,  his  coat  looked  so  much  richer  than  the  doublets  of  all  the 
rest,  that  the  Emperor  Charles,  in  whose  honor  the  procession 
was  given,  remarked  the  painter,  and  so  his  deceit  was  found 
out. 

I have  often  thought  that,  in  respect  of  sham  and  real  his- 
tories, a similar  fact  may  be  noticed ; the  sham  story  appearing 
a great  deal  more  agreeable,  life-like,  and  natural  than  the  true 
one  : and  all  who,  from  laziness  as  well  as  principle,  are  inclined 
to  follow  the  easy  and  comfortable  studj^  of  novels,  may  console 
themselves  with  the  notion  that  they  are  studying  matters  quite 
as  important  as  history,  and  that  their  favorite  duodecimos  are 
as  instructive  as  the  biggest  quartos  in  the  world. 

If  then,  ladies,  the  big-wigs  begin  to  sneer  at  the  course 
of  our  studies,  calling  our  darling  romances  fbolish,  trivial, 
noxious  to  the  mind,  enervators  of  intellect,  fathers  of  idleness, 
and  what  not,  let  us  at  once  take  a high  ground,  and  say,  — 
Go  you  to  your  own  emplo3'inents,  and  to  such  dull  studies  as 
you  fancy  ; go  and  bob  for  triangles,  from  the  Pons  Asinorura  ; 
go  enjoy  }’our  dull  black  draughts  of  metaphj^sics  ; go  fumble 
over  history  books,  and  dissert  upon  Herodotus  and  Li\y ; our 
histories  are,  perhaps,  as  true  as  3^ours  ; our  drink  is  the  brisk 
sparkling  champagne  drink,  from  the  presses  of  Colburn,  Bentley’ 
and  Co.  ; our  walks  are  over  such  sunshin3^  pleasure-grounds 


SOME  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS. 


83 


as  Scott  and  Shakspeare  have  laid  out  for  us  ; and  if  our  dwell- 
ings are  castles  in  the  air,  we  find  them  excessively  splendid 
and  commodious  ; — be  not  you  envious  because  you  have  no 
wings  to  fly  thither.  Let  the  big- wigs  despise  us  ; such  con- 
tempt of  their  neighbors  is  the  custom  of  all  barbarous  tribes  ; 
— witness,  the  learned  Chinese:  Tippoo  Sultaun  declared  that 
there  were  not  in  all  Europe  ten  thousand  men : the  Sklavonic 
hordes,  it  is  said,  so  entitled  themselves  from  a word  in  their 
jargon,  which  signifies  “ to  speak  ; ” the  ruflians  imagining  that 
they  had  a monopoly  of  this  agreeable  faculty,  and  that  all  other 
nations  were  dumb. 

Not  so : others  may  be  deaf ; but  the  novelist  has  a loud, 
eloquent,  instructive  language,  though  his  enemies  may  despise 
or  deny  it  ever  so  much.  What  is  more,  one  could,  perhaps, 
meet  the  stoutest  historian  on  his  own  ground,  and  argue  with 
him  ; showing  that  sham  histories  were  much  truer  than  real 
histories  ; which  are,  in  fact,  mere  contemptible  catalogues  of 
names  and  places,  that  can  have  no  moral  effect  upon  the 
reader. 

As  thus : — 

Julius  Caesar  beat  Pompey,  at  Pharsalia. 

The  Duke  of  Marlborough  beat  Marslial  Tallard  at  Blenheim. 

The  Constable  of  Bourbon  beat  Francis  the  First,  at  Pavia. 

And  what  have  we  here?  — so  many  names,  simply.  Suppose 
Pharsalia  had  been,  at  that  mysterious  period  when  names  were 
given,  called  Pavia;  and  that  Julius  Caesar’s  family  name  had 
been  John  Churchill;  — the  fact  would  have  stood  in  history, 
thus : — 


“ Pompey  ran  away  from  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  at  Pavia.” 

And  why  not?  — we  should  have  been  just  as  wise.  Or  it  might 
be  stated  that  — 

“ The  tenth  legion  charged  the  French  infantry  at  Blenheim  ; and  Caesar, 
writing  home  to  his  mamma,  said,  ‘ Madame,  tout  est  perdu  fors  I’homieur.’  ” 

What  a contemptible  science  this  is,  then,  about  which  quar- 
tos are  written,  and  sixty- volumed  Biographies  Universelles, 
and  Lardner’s  Cabinet  Cyclopaedias,  and  the  like  ! the  facts  are 
nothing  in  it,  the  names  everything ; and  a gentleman  might 
as  well  improve  his  mind  by  learning  Walker’s  ‘‘Gazetteer,” 
or  getting  by  heart  a fifty-years-old  edition  of  the  ‘ ‘ Court 
Guide.” 


84 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK, 


Having  thus  disposed  of  the  historians,  let  us  come  to  the 
point  in  question  — the  novelists. 


On  the  title-page  of  these  volumes  the  reader  has,  doubt- 
less, remarked,  that  among  the  pieces  introduced,  some  are 
announced  as  “copies”  and  “compositions.”  Many  of  the 
histories  have,  accordingly,  been  neatly  stolen  from  the  col- 
lections of  French  authors  (and  mutilated,  according  to  the  old 
saying,  so  that  their  owners  should  not  know  them)  and,  for 
compositions,  we  intend  to  favor  the  public  with  some  studies 
of  French  modern  works,  that  have  not  as  }^et,  we  believe, 
attracted  the  notice  of  the  English  public. 

Of  such  works  there  appear  many  hundreds  }"early,  as  mav 
be  seen  by  the  French  catalogues  ; but  the  writer  has  not  so 
much  to  do  with  works  political,  philosophical,  historical,  meta- 
physical, scientifical,  theological,  as  with  those  for  which  he 
has  been  putting  forward  a plea  — novels,  namely;  on  which 
he  has  expended  a great  deal  of  time  and  study.  And  passing 
from  novels  in  general  to  French  novels,  let  us  confess,  with 
much  humiliation,  that  we  borrow  from  these  stories  a great  deal 
more  knowledge  of  French  societ}^  than  from  our  own  personal 
observation  we  ever  can  hope  to  gain  : for,  let  a gentleman  who 
has  dwelt  two,  four,  or  ten  years  in  Paris  (and  has  not  gone 
thither  for  the  purpose  of  making  a book,  when  three  weeks  are 
sufficient  — let  an  English  gentleman  say,  at  the  end  of  any 
given  period,  how  much  he  knows  of  French  societ}’^,  how  many 
French  houses  he  has  entered,  and  how  man}"  French  friends 
he  has  made?  — He  has  enjoyed,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  say  — 

At  the  English  Ambassador’s,  so  many  soirees. 

At  houses  to  which  he  has  brought  letters,  so  many  tea-parties. 

At  Cafes,  so  many  dinners. 

At  French  private  houses,  say  three  dinners,  and  very  lucky  too. 

He  has,  we  say,  seen  an  immense  number  of  wax  candles, 
cups  of  tea,  glasses  of  orgeat,  and  French  people,  in  best 
clothes,  enjoying  the  same  ; but  intimacy  there  is  none  ; we  see 
but  the  outsides  of  the  people.  Year  by  }"ear  we  live  in  France, 
and  grow  gray,  and  see  no  more.  We  play  ecarte  with  Mon- 
sieur de  Trefle  every  night ; but  what  know  we  of  the  heart  of 
the  man  — of  the  inward  ways,  thoughts,  and  customs  of  Trefle  ? 
If  we  have  good  legs,  and  love  the  amusement,  we  dance  with 
Countess  Flicflac,  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays,  ever  since  the  Peace  ; 
and  how  far  are  we  advanced  in  acquaintance  with  her  since  we 


SOME  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS. 


85 


first  twirled  her  round  a.  room?  We  know  her  velvet  gown, 
and  her  diamonds  (about  three-fourths  of  them  are  sham,  by 
the  way)  ; we  know  her  smiles,  and  her  simpers,  and  her  rouge 
— but  no  more : she  may  turn  into  a kitchen  wench  at  twelve 
on  Thursday  night,  for  aught  we  know  ; her  voiture^  a pump- 
kin ; and  her  gens^  so  maiu^  rats  : but  the  real,  rougeless,  intime 
Flicflac,  we  know  not.  This  privilege  is  granted  to  no  Eng- 
lishman : we  maj' understand  the  French  language  as  well  as 
Monsieur  de  Levizac,  but  never  can  penetrate  into  Flicflac’s 
confidence  : our  wa>'S  are  not  her  ways  ; our  manners  of  think- 
ing, not  hers  : when  we  say  a good  thing,  in  the  course  of  the 
night,  w^e  are  wondrous  luck}’  and  pleased  ; Flicflac  will  trill  3’ou 
off  fifty  in  ten  minutes,  and  wonder  at  the  hUise  of  the  Briton, 
who  has  never  a word  to  sav-  We  are  married,  and  have  four- 
teen children,  and  would  just  as  soon  make  love  to  the  Pope  of 
Rome  as  to  any  one  but  our  own  wife.  If  you  do  not  make 
love  to  Flicflac,  from  the  day  after  her  marriage  to  the  daj  she 
reaches  sixt}',  she  thinks  you  a fool.  We  won't  pla}'  at  ecarte 
with  Trefle  on  Sunday'  nights  ; and  are  seen  walking,  about  one 
o’clock  (accompanied  b}'  fourteen  red-haired  children,  with  four- 
teen gleaming  pra_yer-books),  away  from  the  church.  “ Grand 
Dieu ! ” cries  Trefle,  “is  that  man  mad?  He  won’t  pla}^  at 
cards  on  a Sunda}’ ; he  .goes  to  church  on  a Sunday : he  has 
fourteen  children  ! ” 

Was  ever  Frenchman  knowm  to  do  likewise?  Pass  w^e  on 
to  our  argument,  which  is,  that  wdth  our  English  notions  and 
moral  and  physical  constitution,  it  is  quite  impossible  that  we 
should  become  intimate  with  our  brisk  neighbors  ; and  when 
such  authors  as  Lady  Morgan  and  Mrs.  Trollope,  having  fre- 
quented a certain  number  of  tea-parties  in  the  French  capital, 
begin  to  prattle  about  French  manners  and  men,  — with  all 
respect  for  the  talents  of  those  ladies,  we  do  believe  their 
information  not  to  be  worth  a sixpence ; the}'  speak  to  us  not 
of  men  but  of  tea-parties.  Tea-parties  are  the  same  all  the 
world  over  ; with  the  exception  that,  with  the  French,  there  are 
more  lights  and  prettier  dresses  ; and  with  us,  a might}'  deal 
more  tea  in  the  pot. 

There  is,  however,  a cheap  and  delightful  way  of  travelling, 
that  a man  may  perform  in  his  easy-chair,  without  expense  of 
passports  or  post-boys.  On  the  wings  of  a novel,  from  the 
next  circulating  library,  he  sends  his  imagination  a-gadding, 
and  gains  acquaintance  with  [)eo})le  and  manners  whom  he 
could  not  hope  otherwise  to  know.  Two[)ence  a volume  bears 
us  whithersoever  we  will;  — back  to  Ivauhoe  and  Coeur  de 


86 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Lion,  or  to  Waverlc}^  and  the  Young  Pretender,  along  with 
Walter  Scott;  up  the  heights  of  fashion  with  the  charming  en- 
chanters of  the  silver- fork  school ; or,  better  still,  to  the  snug 
inn-parlor,  or  the  jovial  tap-room,  with  Mr.  Pickwick  and  his 
faithful  Sancho  Weller.  I am  sure  that  a man  who,  a hundred 
3'ears  hence  should  sit  down  to  write  the  history  of  our  time, 
would  do  wrong  to  put  that  great  contemporaiy  histor}^  of  ‘ ‘ Pick- 
wick” aside  as  a frivolous  work.  It  contains  true  character  under 
false  names  ; and,  like  “ Roderick  Random,”  an  inferior  work, 
and  “Tom  Jones”  (one  that  is  immeasurably  superior),  gives  us 
a better  idea  of  the  state  and  wa3's  of  the  people  than  one  could 
gather  from  any  more  pompous  or  authentic  histories. 

We  have,  therefore,  introduced  into  these  volumes  one  or 
two  short  reviews  of  French  fiction  writers,  of  particular 
classes,  whose  Paris  sketches  msiy  give  the  reader  some  notion 
of  manners  in  that  capital.  If  not  original,  at  least  the  draw- 
ings are  accurate ; for,  as  a Frenchman  might  have  lived  a 
thousand  3^ears  in  England,  and  never  could  have  written 
“Pickwick,”  an  Englishman  cannot  hope  to  give  a good  de- 
scription of  the  inward  thoughts  and  wa3^s  of  his  neighbors. 

To  a person  inclined  to  stud3^  these,  in  that  light  and  amus- 
ing fashion  in  which  the  novelist  treats  them,  let  us  recommend 
the  works  of  a new  writer.  Monsieur  de  Bernard,  who  has 
painted  actual  manners,  without  those  monstrous  and  terrible 
exaggerations  in  which  late  French  writers  have  indulged  ; and 
who,  if  he  occasionall3"  wounds  the  English  sense  of  propriet3^ 
(as  what  French  man  or  woman  alive  will  not?)  does  so  more 
hy  slighting  than  b3’  outraging  it,  as,  with  their  labored  de- 
scriptions of  all  sorts  of  imaginable  wickedness,  some  of  his 
brethren  of  the  press  have  done.  M.  de  Bernard’s  characters 
are  men  and  women  of  genteel  societ3^  — rascals  enough,  but 
living  in  no  state  of  convulsive  crimes  ; and  we  follow  him  in 
his  livel3y  malicious  account  of  their  manners,  without  risk  of 
lighting  upon  any  such  horrors  as  Balzac  or  Dumas  has  pro- 
vided for  us. 

Let  us  give  an  instance : — it  is  from  the  amusing  novel 
called  “ Les  Ailes  d’Icare,”  and  contains  what  is  to  us  quite  a 
new  picture  of  a French  fashionable  rogue.  The  fashions  will 
change  in  a few  3^ears,  and  the  rogue,  of  course,  with  them. 
Let  us  catch  this  delightful  fellow  ere  he  flies.  It  is  impossible 
to  sketch  the  character  in  a more  sparkling,  gentlemanlike  way 
than  M.  de  Bernard’s  ; but  such  light  things  are  ver3'  diflScult 
of  translation,  and  the  sparkle  sadly  evaporates  during  the  pro- 
cess of  decantmy. 


SOME  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS. 


87 


A FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  LETTER. 

“ My  dear  Victor  — It  is  six  in  the  morning  : I have  just 
come  from  the  English  Ambassador’s  ball,  and  as  my  plans  for 
the  day  do  not  admit  of  my  sleeping,  I write  you  a line  ; for,  at 
this  moment,  saturated  as  I am  with  the  enchantments  of  a 
fairy  night,  all  other  pleasures  w'ould  be  too  wearisome  to  keep 
me  awake,  except  that  of  conversing  with  }’ou.  Indeed,  were 
I not  to  write  to  3 011  now,  when  should  I find  the  possibilit}'  of 
doing  so?  Time  flies  here  with  such  a frightful  rapidit3^,  my 
pleasures  and  my  affairs  whirl  onwards  together  in  such  a tor- 
rentuoLis  galopade,  that  I am  compelled  to  seize  occasion  b}" 
the  forelock  ; for  each  moment  has  its  imperious  emplo}'.  Do 
not  then  accuse  me  of  negligence  : if  m3’  correspondence  has  not 
always  that  regularit3’  which  I would  fain  give  it,  attribute  the 
fault  solel3’  to  the  whirlwind  in  which  I live,  and  which  carries 
me  hither  and  thither  at  its  will. 

“ However,  you  are  not  the  011I3’  person  with  whom  I am 
behindhand  : I assure  3’ou,  on  the  contraiy,  that  3’ou  are  one  of 
a very  numerous  and  fashionable  company,  to  whom,  towards 
the  discharge  of  my  debts,  I propose  to  consecrate  four  hours 
to-da3^  I give  3’Ou  the  preference  to  all  the  world,  even  to  the 
lov^3’  Duchdss  of  San  Severino,  a delicious  Italian,  whom,  for 
m3"  special  happiness,  I met  last  summer  at  the  Waters  of  Aix. 
I have  also  a most  important  negotiation  to  conclude  with  one 
of  our  Princes  of  Finance  : but  n'importe^  I commence  with 
thee:  friendship  before  love  or  money  — friendship  before 
everything.  M3’  despatches  concluded,  I am  engaged  to  ride 
with  the  Marquis  de  Grigneure,  the  Comte  de  Castijars,  and 
Lord  Cobham,  in  order  that  we  ma3’  recover,  for  a breakfast  at 
the  Rocher  de  Cancale  that  Grigneure  has  lost,  the  appetite 
which  we  all  of  us  so  cruell3’  abused  last  night  at  the  Ambas- 
sador’s gala.  On  1113'  honor,  my  dear  fellow,  everybod3’  was  of 
a caprice  prestiyieux  and  a comfortable  mirohohmt.  Fanc*3’,  for 
a banquet-hall,  a royal  orangery  hung  with  white  damask ; the 
boxes  of  the  shrubs  transformed  into  so  man3’  sideboards  ; 
lights  gleaming  through  the  foliage  ; and,  for  guests,  the  love- 
liest women  and  most  brilliant  cavaliers  of  Paris.  Orleans  and 
Nemours  were  there,  dancing  and  eating  like  simple  mortals. 
In  a word,  Albion  did  the  thing  very  handsomely,  and  I accord 
it  m3’  esteem. 

“ Here  I pause,  to  call  for  my  valet-de-chambre,  and  call  for 
tea ; for  m3’  head  is  heav3’,  and  I’ve  no  time  for  a headache. 
In  serving  me,  this  rascal  of  a Frederic  has  broken  a cup,  true 


88 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Japan,  upon  honor  — the  rogue  does  nothing  else.  Yesteiv 
day,  for  instance,  did  he  not  thump  me  prodigiousl}^,  by  letting 
fall  a goblet,  after  Cellini,  of  which  the  carving  alone  cost  me 
three  hundred  francs?  I must  positively  put  the  wretch  out 
of  doors,  to  ensure  the  safety  of  m3"  furniture  ; and  in  conse- 
quence of  this,  Eneas,  an  audacious  3"Oung  negro,  in  whom 
wisdom  hath  not  waited  for  3'ears  — Eneas,  m3"  groom,  I sa3", 
will  probabl3"  be  elevated  to  the  post  of  valet-de-chambre.  But 
where  was  I?  I think  I was  speaking  to  3"ou  of  an  03"ster 
breakfast,  to  which,  on  our  return  from  the  Park  (du  Bois),  a 
compaiw  of  pleasant  rakes  are  invited.  After  quitting  Borel’s, 
we  propose  to  adjourn  to  the  Barriere  du  Combat,  where  Lord 
Cobham  proposes  to  tr3"  some  bull-dogs,  which  he  has  brought 
over  from  England  — one  of  these,  O’Connell  (Lord  Cobham  is 
a Tor3",)  has  a face  in  which  I place  much  confidence  : I have 
a bet  of  ten  louis  with  Castijars  on  the  strength  of  it.  After  the 
fight,  we  shall  make  our  accustomed  appearance  at  the  ‘ Cafe 
de  Paris,’  (the  011I3"  place,  b3"  the  wa3",  where  a man  who  re- 
spects himself  ma3"  be  seen,)  — and  then  awa3"  with  frocks  and 
spurs,  and  on  with  our  dress-coats  'for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
In  the  first  place,  I shall  go  doze  for  a couple  of  hours  at  the 
Opera,  where  my  presence  is  indispensable ; for  Coralie,  a 
charming  creature,  passes  this  evening  from  the  rank  of  the 
rats  to  that  of  the  tigers^  in  a pas-de-trois^  and  our  box  patronizes 
her.  After  the  Opera,  I must  show  my  face  to  two  or  three 
salons  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore  ; and  having  thus  performed 
m3"  duties  to  the  world  of  fashion,  I return  to  the  exercise  of  my 
rights  as  a member  of  the  Carnival.  At  two  o’clock  all  the 
world  meets  at  the  Theatre  Ventadour:  lions  and  tigers  — the 
whole  of  our  menagerie  will  be  present.  Evoe ! off  we  go ! 
roaring  and  bounding  Bacchanal  and  Saturnal ; ’tis  agreed  that 
we  shall  be  everything  that  is  low.  To  conclude,  we  sup  with 
Castijars,  the  most  ‘furiously  dishevelled’  orgy  that  ever  was 
'known.” 

The  rest  of  the  letter  is  on  matters  of  finance,  equall3"  curious 
and  instructive.  But  pause  we  for  the  present,  to  consider  the 
fashionable  part : and  caricature  as  it  is,  we  have  an  accurate 
picture  of  the  actual  French  dandy.  Bets,  breakfasts,  riding, 
dinners  at  the  “ Cafe  de  Paris,”  and  delirious  Carnival  balls: 
the  animal  goes  through  all  such  frantic  pleasures  at  the  season 
that  precedes  Lent.  He  has  a wondrous  respect  for  English 
“ gentleraen-sportsmen  ; ” he  imitates  their  clubs — their  love 
of  horse-flesh:  he  calls  his  palefrenier  a groom,  wears  blue 


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89 


birds’s-e3^e  neck-dotlis,  sports  liis  pink  out  hunting,  rides 
steeple-ehases,  and  has  his- Jocke}'  Club.  Tlie  “tigers  and 
lions  ” alluded  to  in  the  report  have  been  borrowed  from  our 
OAvn  country,  and  a great  compliment  is  it  to  Monsieur  de 
Bernard,  the  writer  of  the  above  amusing  sketch,  that  he  has 
such  a knowledge  of  English  names  and  things,  as  to  give  a 
Toiy  lord  the  decent  title  of  Lord  Cobham,  and  to  call  his  dog 
O’Connell.  Paul  de  Kock  calls  an  English  nobleman,  in  one  of 
his  last  novels.  Lord  BouUngrog^  and  appears  vastl}'  delighted  at 
the  verisimilitude  of  the  title. 

For  the  “ rugissements  et  bondissements^  bacchanale  et  saturnale^ 
galop  infernal^  ronde  dii  sabbat  tout  le  tr emblement  ” these  words 
give  a most  clear,  untranslatable  idea  of  the  Carnival  ball. 
A sight  more  hideous  can  hardl}’  strike  a man’s  eye.  I was 
present  at  one  where  the  four  thousand  guests  whirled  scream- 
ing, reeling,  roaring,  out  of  the  ball-room  in  the  Rue  St. 
Honore,  and  tore  down  to  the  column  in  the  Place  Vendome, 
round  which  they  w^ent  shrieking  their  own  music,  twenty  miles 
an  hour,  and  so  tore  madlj^  back  again.  Let  a man  go  alone  to 
such  a place  of  amusement,  and  the  sight  for  him  is  perfectly 
terrible  : the  horrid  frantic  ga3’et}^  of  the  place  puts  him  in  mind 
more  of  the  merriment  of  demons  than  of  men  : bang,  bang, 
drums,  trumpets,  chairs,  pistol-shots,  pour  out  of  the  orchestra, 
which  seems  as  mad  as  the  dancers  ; whiz,  a whirlwind  of  paint 
and  patches,  all  the  costumes  under  the  sun,  all  the  ranks  in  the 
empire,  all  the  he  and  she  scoundrels  of  the  capital,  writhed  and 
twisted  together,  rush  by  you  ; if  a man  falls,  woe  be  to  him  : 
two  thousand  screaming  menads  go  trampling  over  his  carcass : 
they  have  neither  power  nor  will  to  stop. 

A set  of  Malays  drunk  wdth  bhang  and  running  amuck,  a 
company  of  howling  dervishes,  may  possibly,  in  our  own  day, 
go  through  similar  frantic  vagaries  \ but  I doubt  if  any  civilized 
European  people  but  the  French  would  })ermit  and  enjoy  such 
scenes.  Yet  our  neighbors  see  little  shame  in  them  ; and  it  is 
very  true  that  men  of  all  classes,  high  and  low,  here  congregate 
and  give  themselves  up  to  the  disgusting  worship  of  the  genius 
of  the  place.  — From  the  dandy  of  the  Boulevard  and  the  “ Cafe 
Anglais,”  let  us  turn  to  the  dand3'  of  “ Flicoteau’s  ” and  the 
Pa3’s  Latin  — the  Paris  student,  whose  exploits  among  the 
grisettes  are  so  celebrated,  and  whose  fierce  rej.)ublicanisni  keeps 
gendarmes  for  ever  on  the  alert.  The  following  is  M.  de  Ber- 
nard’s description  of  him  : — 

“I  became  acquainted  with  Dambergeac  when  we  were 


90 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


students  at  the  Ecole  de  Droit ; we  lived  in  the  same  Hotel  on 
the  Place  du  Pantheon.  No  doubt,  madam,  3’ou  have  Qccasion- 
alH  met  little  children  dedicated  to  the  Virgin,  and,  to  this  end, 
clothed  in  white  raiment  from  head  to  foot : m^^  friend.  Dam- 
bergeac,  had  received  a dilferent  consecration.  His  father,  a 
great  patriot  of  the  Revolution,  had  determined  that  his  son 
should  bear  into  the  world  a sign  of  indelible  republicanism  ; 
so,  to  the  great  displeasure  of  his  godmother  and  the  parish 
curate,  Dambei-geac  was  christeiied  by  the  pagan  name  of  Har- 
modius.  It  was  a kind  of  moral  tricolor-cockade,  which  the 
child  was  to  bear  through  the  vicissitudes  of  all  the  revolutions 
to  come.  Under  such  influences,  m3'  friend’s  character  began 
to  develop  itself,  and,  fired  b}'  the  example  of  his  father,  and 
by  the  warm  atmosphere  of  his  native  place,  Marseilles,  he 
grew  up  to  have  an  independent  spirit,  and  a grand  liberality 
of  politics,  which  were  at  their  height  when  first  I made  his 
acquaintance. 

“ tie  was  tlien  a young  man  of  eighteen,  with  a tall,  slim 
figure,  a broad  chest,  and  a flaming  black  e3’e,  out  of  all  which 
personal  charms  he  knew  how  to  draw  the  most  advantage  t 
and  though  his  costume  was  such  as  Staub  might  probabl}*  have 
criticised,  he  had,  nevertheless,  a style  peculiar  to  himself  — to 
himself  and  the  students,  among  whom  he  was  tlie  leader  of  the 
fashion.  A tight  black  coat,  buttoned  up  to  the  chin,  across 
the  chest,  set  off  that  part  of  his  person  ; a low-crowned  hat, 
with  a A'oluminous  rim,  cast  solemn  shadows  over  a countenance 
bronzed  b}'  a southern  sun  : he  wore,  at  one  time,  enormous 
flowing  black  locks,  which  he  sacrificed  pitilessU,  however,  and 
adopted  a Brutus,  as  being  more  revolntionaiy : finall}',  he 
carried  an  enormous  club,  that  was  his  code  and  digest : in  like 
manner,  De  Retz  used  to  cany  a stiletto  in  his  pocket  b}'  wa}' 
of  a breviary. 

“ Although  of  different  ways  of  thinking  in  politics,  certain 
sympathies  of  character  and  conduct  united  Dambergeac  and 
myself,  and  we  speedily  became  close  friends.  I don’t  think, 
in  the  whole  course  of  his  three  years’  residence,  Dambergeac 
ever  went  through  a single  course  of  lectures.  For  the  exami- 
nations, he  trusted  to  luck,  and  to  his  own  facility,  which  w'as 
prodigious : as  for  honors,  he  never  aimed  at  them,  but  was 
content  to  do  exactl}'  as  little  as  was  necessaiy  for  him  to  gain 
his  degree.  In  like  manner  he  sedulousl3'  aA'oided  those  horri- 
ble circulating  libraries,  where  daily  are  seen  to  congregate  the 
‘ reading  men  ’ of  our  schools.  But,  in  revenge,  there  was  not 
a milliner’s  shop,  or  a lingeres,  in  all  our  quartier  Latin,  which 


SOME  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS. 


91 


he  did  not  indiistriousi}'  frequent,  and  of  which  he  was  not  the 
oracle.  Nay,  it  was  said  that  his  victories  were  not  confined 
to  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine  ; reports  did  occasionally’^  come  to 
us  of  fabulous  adventures  b}’  him  accomplished  in  the  far 
regions  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  the  Boulevard  Poissonniere. 
Such  recitals  wei'e,  for  us  less  favored  mortals,  like  tales  of 
Bacchus  conquering  in  the  East ; they  excited  our  amlntion, 
but  not  our  jealous}^ ; for  the  superiority  of  Ilarmodius  was 
acknowledged  by  us  all,  and  we  never  thought  of  a rivalry  with 
liim.  No  mail  ever  cantered  a hack  through  the  Champs 
Elysees  with  such  elegant  assurance  ; no  man  ever  made  such 
a massacre  of  dolls  at  the  shooting-gallery ; or  won  you  a 
rubber  at  billiards  with  more  easy  grace  ; or  thundered  out  a 
couplet  out  of  Beranger  with  such  a roaring  melodious  bass. 
He  was  the  monarch  of  the  Prado  in  winter : in  summer  of 
the  Chaumiere  and  Mont  Parnasse.  Not  a frequenter  of  those 
fashionable  places  of  entertainment  showed  a more  amiable 
laisser-alier  in  the  dance  — that  jieculiar  dance  at  which  gen- 
darmes think  proper  to  blush,  and  which  squemnish  societ}'  has 
banished  from  her  salons.  In  a word,  Ilarmodius  was  the 
prince  mauvais  sujets^  a youth  with  all  the  accomplishments 
of  Gottingen  and  Jena,  and  all  the  eminent  graces  of  his  own 
country. 

“ Besides  dissipation  and  gallantry,  our  friend  had  one  other 
vast  and  absorbing  occupation  — politics,  namel}' ; in  which  he 
was  as  turbulent  and  enthusiastic  as  in  pleasure.  La  Patrie 
was  his  idol,  his  heaven,  his  nightmare  ; by  da}’  he  spouted, 
by  night  he  dreamed,  of  his  country.  I have  spoken  to  you  of 
his  coiffure  a la  Sylla ; need  I mention  his  i)ipe,  his  meerschaum 
pipe,  of  which  General  Foy’s  head  was  the  bowl;  his  handker- 
chief with  the  Charte  printed  thereon  ; and  his  celebrated  tri- 
color braces,  which  kept  the  rail}  ing  sign  of  his  country  ever 
close  to  his  heart?  Besides  these  outward  and  visible  signs  of 
sedition,  he  had  inward  and  secret  plans  of  revolution  : he  be- 
longed to  clubs,  frequented  associations, -read  the  Consfitution- 
nel  (Liberals,  in  those  days,  swore  by  the  Constitutiomiel)^ 
harangued  peers  and  deputies  who  had  deserved  well  of  their 
country  ; and  if  death  happened  to  fVdl  on  such,  and  the  Consfi- 
tutionnel  declared  tlieir  merit,  Ilarmodius  was  the  very  first  to 
attend  their  obsequies,  or  to  set  his  shoulder  to  their  coffins. 

‘‘  Such  were  his  tastes  aud  passions  : his  antipathies  were 
not  less  lively.  He  detested  three  things : a Jesuit,  a gen- 
darme, and  a claqueur  at  a theatre.  At  this  period,  mission- 
aries were  rife  about  Paris,  and  endeavored  to  re-illume  the 


92 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


zeal  of  the  faithful  public  preachings  in  the  churches.  ‘ ln» 
fames  jesuites!'  would  Harmodius  exclaim,  who,  in  the  excess 
of  his  toleration,  tolerated  nothing  ; and,  at  the  head  of  a band 
of  philosophers  like  himself,  would  attend  with  scrupulous  ex- 
actitude the  meetings  of  the  reverend  gentlemen.  But,  instead 
of  a contrite  heart,  Harmodius  only  brought  the  abomination 
of  desolation  into  their  sanctuary.  A perpetual  fire  of  fulmi- 
nating balls  would  bang  from  under  the  feet  of  the  faithful ; 
odors  of  impure  assafoetida  would  mingle  with  the  fumes  of  the 
incense ; and  wicked  drinking  choruses  would  rise  up  along 
with  the  holy  canticles,  in  hideous  dissonance,  reminding  one 
of  the  old  orgies  under  the  reign  of  the  Abbot  of  Unreason. 

“His  hatred  of  the  gendarmes  was  equally  ferocious  : and 
as  for  the  claqueurs,  w^oe  be  to  them  when  Harmodius  was  in 
the  pit!  They  knew  him,  and  trembled  before  him,  like  the 
earth  before  Alexander ; and  his  famous  war-ciy,  ‘ La  Carte  au 
chapeau!’  was  so  much  dreaded,  that  the  entrepreneurs  de 
succes  dramatiques  ’ demanded  twice  as  m.uch  to  do  the  Odeon 
Theatre*  (which  we  students  and  Harmodius  frequented),  as  to 
applaud  at  aii}^  other  place  of  amusement : and,  indeed,  their 
double  psij  was  hardly  gained ; Harmodius  taking  care  that 
they  should  earn  the  most  of  it  under  the  benches.” 

This  passage,  with  which  we  have  taken  some  liberties,  will 
give  the  reader  a more  lively  idea  of  the  reckless,  jovial,  turbu- 
lent Paris  student,  than  any  with  which  a foreigner  could  fur- 
nish him  : the  grisette  is  his  heroine  ; and  dear  old  Beranger, 
the  cynic-epicurean,  has  celebrated  him  and  her  in  the  most  de- 
lightful verses  in  the  world.  Of  these  we  ma}"  have  occasion 
to  say  a word  or  two  anon.  Meanwhile  let  us  follow  Monsieur 
de  Bernard  in  his  amusing  descriptions  of  his  countrymen  some- 
what farther ; and,  having  seen  how  Dambergeac  was  a fero- 
cious republican,  being  a bachelor,  let  us  see  how  age,  sense, 
and  a little  government  pay  — the  great  agent  of  conversions  in 
France  — nay,  in  England  — has  reduced  him  to  be  a pompous, 
quiet,  loj^al  supporter  of  the  juste  milieu  : his  former  portrait 
was  that  of  the  student,  the  present  will  stand  for  an  admirable 
lively  likeness  of 

THE  SOUS-PREFET. 

“ Saying  that  I would  wait  for  Dambergeac  in  his  own 
study,  I was  introduced  into  that  apartment,  and  saw  around 
me  the  usual  furniture  of  a man  in  his  station.  There  was, 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  a large  bureau,  surrounded  by 


SOME  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS. 


93 


orthodox  arm-chairs  ; and  there  were  many  shelves  with  boxes 
duly  ticketed ; there  were  a number  of  maps,  and  among  them 
a great  one  of  the  department  over  which  Dambergeac  ruled ; 
and  facing  the  windows,  on  a wooden  pedestal,  stood  a plas- 
ter-cast of  the  ^Roi  des  Jdrangcu's.’  Recollecting  ni}^  friend’s 
former  republicanism,  I smiled  at  this  piece  of  furniture  ; but 
before  I had  time  to  carry  103^  observations  aii3^  farther,  a 
heav3’  rolling  sound  of  carriage-wheels,  that  caused  the  win- 
dows to  rattle  and  seemed  to  shake  the  whole  edifice  of  the 
sub-prefecture,  called  my  attention  to  the  court  without.  Its 
iron  gates  were  flung  -open,  and  in  rolled,  with  a great  deal 
of  din,  a chariot  escorted  b}"  a brace  of  gendarmes,  sword 
in  hand.  A tall  gentleman,  with  a cocked-hat  and  feathers, 
wearing  a blue  and  silver  uniform  coat,  descended  from  the 
vehicle  ; and  having,  with  much  grave  condescension,  saluted 
his  escort,  mounted  the  stair.  A moment  afterwards  the  door 
of  the  stud}'^  was  opened,  and  I embraced  1113*  friend. 

“ After  the  first  warmth  and  salutations,  we  began  to  ex- 
amine each  other  with  an  equal  curiosity,  for  eight  years  had 
elapsed  since  we  had  last  met. 

“‘You  are  grown  very  thin  and  pale,’  said  Harmodius, 
after  a moment. 

“ ‘ In  revenge  I And  3^011  fat  and  rosy : if  I am  a walking 
satire  on  celibac3% — 3'ou,  at  least,  are  a living  panegyric  on 
marriage.’ 

“ In  fact  a great  change,  and  such  an  one  as  many  peo- 
ple would  call  a change  for  the  better,  had  taken  place  in  my 
friend : he  had  grown  fat,  and  announced  a decided  disposi- 
tion to  become  what  French  people  call  a belhomme:  that  is, 
a veiy  fat  one.  His  complexion,  bronzed  before,  was  now 
clear  white  and  red : there  were  no  more  political  allusions  in 
his  hair,  which  was,  on  the  contrary,  neatlv  frizzed,  and 
brushed  over  the  forehead,  shell-shape.  This  head-dress, 
joined  to  a thin  pair  of  whiskers,  cut  crescent-wise  from  the 
ear  to  the  nose,  gave  m3"  friend  a regular  bourgeois  pli3^siog- 
nomy,  wax-doll-like : he  looked  a great  deal  too  well ; and, 
added  to  this,  the  solemnit3"  of  his  prefectural  costume,  gave 
his  whole  appearance  a pompous  well-fed  look  that  b3"  no 
means  pleased. 

I surprise  3'ou,’  said  I,  ‘in  the  midst  of  3"Our  splendor: 
do  you  know  that  this  costume  and  yonder  attendants  have 
a look  excessively  awful  and  splendid?  You  entered  your 
palace  just  now  with  the  air  of  a pasha.’ 

“‘You  see  me  in  uniform  in  honor  of  Monseigneur  the 


94 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Bishop,  who  has  just  made  his  diocesan  visit,  and  whom  I have 
just  conducted  to  the  limit  of  the  arrondissement.' 

“‘What!’  said  I,  ‘you  have  gendarmes  for  guards,  and 
dance  attendance  on  bishops?  There  are  no  more  janissaries 
and  Jesuits,  I suppose?  ’ The  sub-prefect  smiled. 

“ ‘ I assure  you  that  rn}^  gendarmes  are  very  worth^^  fellows  ; 
and  that  among  the  gentlemen  who  compose  our  clerg}'  there 
are  some  of  the  very  best  rank  and  talent : besides,  m3'  wife  is 
niece  to  one  of  the  vicars -general.’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ What  have  you  done  with  that  great  Tasso  beard  that 
poor  Armandine  used  to  love  so  ? ’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ wife  does  not  like  a beard  ; and  3'ou  know  that  what 
is  permitted  to  a student  is  not  yery  becoming  to  a magistrate.’ 

“ I began  to  laugh.  ‘ Harmodius  and  a magistrate  ! — how 
shall  I ever  couple  the  two  words  together?  But  tell  me,  in 
your  correspondences,  your  audiences,  3^our  sittings  with  vil- 
lage mayors  and  pettj^  councils,  how  do  you  manage  to  remain 
awake  ? ’ 

“ ‘ In  the  commencement,’  said  Harmodius,  gravel}^  ‘ it  was 
very  difficult ; and,  in  order  to  keep  m3'  eyes  open,  I used  to 
stick  pins  into  my  legs  : now,  however,  I am  used  to  it ; and 
I’m  sure  I don’t  take  more  than  fifty  pinches  of  snuff  at  a sit- 
ting.’ 

“‘Ah!  apropos  of  snuff:  you  are  near  Spain  here,  and 
were  alwa3'S  a famous  smoker.  Give  me  a cigar,  — it  will 
take  awa3'  the  musty  odor  of  these  piles  of  papers.’ 

“‘Impossible,  m3'  dear;  I don’t  smoke;  my  wife  cannot 
bear  a cigar.’ 

‘ ‘ His  wife  ! thought  I ; alwa3's  his  w'ife  : and  I remember 
Juliette,  who  reall3'  grew  sick  at  the  smell  of  a pipe,  and  Har- 
modius would  smoke,  until,  at  last,  the  poor  thing  grew  to  smoke 
herself,  like  a trooper.  To  compensate,  however,  as  much  as 
possible  for  the  loss  of  my  cigar,  Dambergeac  drew  from  liis 
pocket  an  enormous  gold  snuff-box,  on  which  figured  the  self- 
same head  that  I had  before  remarked  in  plaster,  but  this  time 
surrounded  with  a ring  of  prett3'  princes  and  princesses,  all 
nicel3'  painted  in  miniature.  As  for  the  statue  of  Louis  Phi- 
lippe, that,  in  the  cabinet  of  an  official,  is  a thing  of  course ; 
but  the  snuff-box  seemed  to  indicate  a degree  of  sentimental 
and  personal  devotion,  such  as  the  old  Ro3'alists  were  01113'  sup- 
posed  to  be  guilt3'  of. 

“ '•  Wliat ! 3'ou  are  turned  decided  juste  milieu?’  said  I. 

“ ‘ I am  a sous-prefet,’  answered  Harmodius. 

“ I had  nothing  to  sa3',  but  held  m3'  tongue,  wondering,  not 


SOME  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS. 


95 


at  the  change  which  had  taken  place  in  the  habits,  manners, 
and  opinions  of  ray  friend,  but  at  my  own  foll^y  which  led  me 
to  fancy  that  I should  find  the  student  of  ’26  in  the  functionary 
of ’34.  At  this  moment  a domestic  appeared. 

“‘Madame  is  waiting  for  Monsieur,’  said  he:  ‘the  last 
bell  has  gone,  and  mass  beginning.’ 

“ ‘ Mass  ! ’ said  I,  bounding  up  from  m}"  chair.  ‘ You  at 
mass  like  a decent  serious  Christian,  without  crackers  in  3’our 
pocket,  and  bored  ke3's  to  whistle  through?’  — The  sous-prcfet 
rose,  his  countenance  was  calm,  and  an  indulgent  smile  played 
upon  his  lips,  as  he  said,  ‘ M3"  arrondissement  is  veiy  devout ; 
and  not  to  interfere  with  the  belief  of  the  population  is  the 
maxim  of  eveiy  wise  politician  : I have  precise  orders  from 
Government  on  the  point,  too,  and  go  to  eleven  o’clock  mass 
eveiy  Sunday.’  ” 

There  is  a great  deal  of  curious  matter  for  speculation  in 
the  accounts  here  so  wittily  given  b3'  M.  de  Bernard  : but,  per- 
haps, it  is  -still  more  curious  to  think  of  what  he  has  not  written, 
and  to  judge  of  his  characters,  not  so  much  by  the  words  in 
which  he  describes  them,  as  by  the  unconscious  testimon3"  that 
the  words  all  together  convey.  In  the  first  place,  our  author 
describes  a swindler  imitating  the  manners  of  a dandy  ; and 
many  swindlers  and  dandies  be  there,  doubtless,  in  London 
as  well  as  in  Paris.  But  there  is  about  the  present  swindler, 
and  about  Monsieur  Dambergeac  the  student,  and  Monsieur 
Dambergeac  the  sous-prefet,  and  his  friend,  a rich  store  of  calm 
internal  debauch^  which  does  not,  let  us  hope  and  pra3",  exist 
in  England.  Hearken  to  M.  de  Gustan,  and  his  smirking 
whispers,  about  the  Duchess  of  San  Severino,  who  'pour  son 
honheur  particalier^  &c.  &c.  Listen  to  Monsieur  Dambergeac’s 
IViend’s  remonstrances  concerning  pauvre  Juliette  who  grew  sick 
at  the  smell  of  a pipe  ; to  his  na'ive  admiration  at  the  fact  that 
tlie  sous-prefet  goes  to  church : and  we  ma3"  set  down,  as 
axioms,  that  religion  is  so  uncommon  among  the  Parisians, 
as  to  awaken  the  surprise  of  all  candid  observers  ; that  gallan- 
tly is  so  common  as  to  create  no  remark,  and  to  be  considered 
as  a matter  of  course.  With  us,  at  least,  the  converse  of  the 
proposition  prevails : it  is  the  man  professing  m’eligion  who 
would  be  remarked  and  reprehended  in  England  ; and,  if  the 
second-named  vice  exists,  at  aiy'  rate,  it  adopts  the  decenc3"  of 
secrec3^  made  patent  and  notorious  to  all  the  world. 

A French  gentleman  thinks  no  more  of  proclaiming  that  he 
has  a mistress  than  that  he  has  a tailor ; and  one  lives  the  time 


96 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


of  Boccaccio  over  again,  in  the  thousand  and  one  French  novels 
which  depict  society  in  that  conntiy. 

For  instance,  here  are  before  us  a few  specimens  (do  not, 
madam,  be  alarmed,  3'oa  can  skip  the  sentence  if  you  like,) 
to  be  found  in  as  many  admirable  witty  tales,  by  the  before- 
lauded  Monsieur  de  Bernard.  He  is  more  remarkable  than  any 
other  French  author,  to  our  notion,  for  writing  like  a gentle- 
man-: there  is  ease,  grace  and  ton,  in  his  style,  which,  if  we 
judge  aright,  cannot  be  discovered  in  Balzac,  or  Soulie,  or 
Dumas.  We  have  then  — “ Gerfaut,”  a novel : a lovel3^  crea- 
ture is  married  to  a brave,  haughty,  Alsacian  nobleman,  who 
allows  her  to  spend  her  winters  at  Paris,  he  remaining  on  his 
terres,  cultivating,  carousing,  and  hunting  the  boar.  The  lovel3" 
creature  meets  the  fascinating  Gerfaut  at  Paris ; instantly  the 
latter  makes  love  to  her ; a duel  takes  place  : baron  killed ; 
wife  throws  herself  out  of  window  ;■  Gerfaut  plunges  into  dis- 
sipation ; and  so  the  tale  ends. 

Next:  ‘‘  La  Femme  de  Quarante  Ans,”  a capital  tale,  full 
of  exquisite  fun  and  sparkling  satire : La  femme  de  quarante 
ans  has  a husband  and  three  lovers  ; all  of  whom  find  out  their 
mutual  connection  one  staiT3"  night ; for  the  lady  of  fort3^  is 
of  a romantic  poetical  turn,  and  has  given  her  three  admirers 
a star  apiece;  sa3'ing  to  one  and  the  other,  “Alphonse,  when 
3^on  pale  orb  rises  in  heaven,  think  of  me;”  “ Isadore,  when 
that  bright  planet  sparkles  in  the  sk3",  remember  3’our  Caro- 
line,” &c. 

“ Un  Acte  de  Vertu,”  from  which  we  have  taken  Damber- 
geac’s  histoiy,  contains  him,  the  husband  — a wife  — and  a 
brace  of  lovers  ; and  a great  deal  of  fun  takes  place  in  the 
manner  in  which  one  lover  supplants  the  other.  — Pretty  morals 
truly  ! 

If  we  examine  an  author  who  rejoices  in  the  aristocratic 
name  of  le  Comte  Horace  de  ViehCastei,  we  find,  though  with 
infinitel3^  less  wit,  exactl3^  the  same  intrigues  going  on.  A 
noble  Count  lives  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  and  has  a noble 
Duchess  for  a mistress  : he  introduces  her  Grace  to  the  Coun- 
tess his  wife.  The  Countess  his  wife,  in  order  to  ramener  her 
lord  to  his  conjugal  duties,  is  counselled,  ly  a friend,  to  pretend 
to  take  a lover : one  is  found,  who,  poor  fellow ! takes  the  affair 
in  earnest:  climax  — duel,  death,  despair,  and  what  not?  In 
the  “Faubourg  St.  Germain,”  another  novel  b3'  the  same 
writer,  which  professes  to  describe  the  veiy  pink  of  that  sociot3^ 
which  Napoleon  dreaded  more  than  Russia,  Prussia,  and  Aus- 
tria, there  is  an  old  husband,  of  course ; a sentimental  3"oung 


SOME  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS. 


97 


German  nobleman,  who  falls  in  love  with  his  wife  ; and  the 
moral  of  the  piece  lies  in  the  showing  up  of  the  conduct  of  the 
lady,  who  is  reprehended  — not  for  deceiving  her  husband 
(poor  devil !)  — but  for  l)eing  a flirt,  and  taking  a second  lover ^ 
to  the  utter  despair,  confusion,  and  annihilation  of  the  first. 

Why,  ye  gods,  do  Frenchmen  marry  at  all?  Had  Pere  En- 
fantin  (who,  it  is  said,  has  shaved  his  ambrosial  beard,  and 
is  now  a clerk  in  a banking-house)  been  allowed  to  carry  out 
his  chaste,  just,  dignified  social  scheme,  what  a deal  of  marital 
discomfort  might  have  been  avoided  : — would  it  not  be  advis- 
able that  a great  reformer  and  lawgiver  of  our  own,  Mr.  Robert 
Owen,  should  be  presented  at  the  Tuileries,  and  there  propound 
his  scheme  for  the  regeneration  of  France? 

He  might,  perhaps,  be  spared,  for  our  country  is  not  3’et 
sufficientlj'  advanced  to  give  such  a philosopher  fair  play.  In 
London,  as  yet,  there  are  no  blessed  Bureaux  de  Mariage^ 
where  an  old  bachelor  may  have  a charming  3’oung  maiden  — 
for  his  money ; or  a widow  of  seventy  ma^^  buy  a gay  3^oung 
fellow  of  twent}%  for  a certain  number  of  bank-billets.  If 
mariages  de  convenance  take  place  here  (as  they  will  wherever 
avarice,  and  poverty,  and  desire,  and  3’earning  after  riches 
are  to  be  found),  at  least,  thank  God,  such  unions  are  not 
arranged  upon  a regular  organized  system : there  is  a fictio!3 
of  attachment  with  us,  and  there  is  a consolation  in  the  deceit 
(“the  homage,”  according  to  the  old  mot  of  Rochefoucauld, 
“which  vice  pa}’s  to  virtue”;  for  the  very  falsehood  show? 
that  the  virtue  exists  somewhere.  We  once  heard  a furious 
old  French  colonel  inveighing  against  the  chastit}'  of  English 
demoiselles:  “ F'^igurez-vous,  sir,”  said  he  (he  had  been  a pris- 
oner in  England),  “that  these  women  come  down  to  dinnel 
in  low  dresses,  and  walk  out  alone  with  the  men  ! ” — and, 
pra}^  heaven,  so  ma}^  they  walk,  fancy-free  in  all  sorts  of 
maiden  meditations,  and  suffer  no  more  molestation  than  that 
young  lady  of  whom  Moore  sings,  and  who  (there  must  have 
been  a famous  lord-lieutenant  in  those  da3^s)  walked  through 
all  Ireland,  with  rich  and  rare  gems,  beauty,  and  a gold  ring 
on  her  stick,  without  meeting  or  thinking  of  harm. 

Now,  whether  Monsieur  de  Viel-Castel  has  given  a true  picture 
of  the  P^aubourg  ,St.  Germain,  it  is  impossible  for  most  foreign- 
ers to  say  ; but  some  of  his  descriptions  will  not  fail  to  astonish 
the  English  reader ; and  all  are  filled  with  that  remarkable  naif 
contempt  of  the  institution  called  marriage,  which  we  have 
seen  in  M.  de  Bei’nard.  The  romantic  3'oung  nobleman  of 
Westphalia  arrives  at  Paris,  and  is  admitted  into  what  a cele- 

7 


98 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


brated  female  author  calls  la  creme  de  la  creme  de  la  haute  volec 
of  Parisian  society.  He  is  a youth  of  about  twenty  years  of 
age.  “No  passion  had  as  yet  come  to  move  his  heart,  and 
give  life  to  his  faculties ; he  was  awaiting  and  fearing  the  mo- 
ment of  love  ; calling  for  it,  and  yet  trembling  at  its  approach  ; 
feeling  in  the  depths  of  his  soul,  that  that  moment  would 
create  a mighty  change  in  his  being,  and  decide,  perhaps,  by 
its  influence,  the  whole  of  his  future  life.” 

Is  it  not  remarkable,  that  a young  nobleman,  with  these 
ideas,  should  not  pitch  upon  a demoiselle^  or  a widow,  at  least? 
but  no,  the  rogue  must  have  a married  woman,  bad  luck  to 
him  ; and  what  his  fate  is  to  be,  is  thus  recounted  by  our 
author,  in  the  shape  of 

A FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  CONVERSATION. 

“A  lad}%  with  a great  deal  of  esprit^  to  whom  forty  years* 
experience  of  the  great  world  had  given  a prodigious  perspi- 
cacity^ of  judgment,  the  Duchess  of  Chalux,  arbitress  of  the 
opinion  to  be  held  on  all  new  comers  to  the  Faubourg  Saint 
Germain,  and  of  their  destiny  and  reception  in  it ; — one  of 
those  women,  in  a word,  who  make  or  ruin  a man, — said,  in 
speaking  of  Gerard  de  Stolberg,  whom  she  received  at  her  own 
house,  and  met  everywhere,  ‘ This  young  German  will  never 
gain  for  himself  the  title  of  an  exquisite,  or  a man  of  bonnes 
fortunes,  among  us.  In  spite  of  his  calm  and  politeness,  I 
think  I can  see  in  his  character  some  rude  and  insurmountable 
difficulties,  which  time  will  only  increase,  and  which  will  pre- 
vent him  for  ever  from  bending  to  the  exigencies  of  either  pro- 
fession ; but,  unless  I very  much  deceive  myself,  he  will,  one 
day,  be  the  hero  of  a veritable  romance.’ 

“‘He,  madame?’  answered  a young  man,  of  fair  com- 
plexion and  fair  hair,  one  of  the  most  devoted  slaves  of  the 
fashion:  — ‘He,  Madame  la  Duchesse?  why,  the  man  is,  at 
best,  but  an  original,  fished  out  of  the  Rhine : a dull,  heavy 
creature,  as  much  capable  of  understanding  a woman’s  heart  as 
I am  of  speaking  bas-Breton.’ 

“‘Well,  Monsieur  de  Belport,  y^ou  will  speak  bas-Breton. 
Monsieur  de  Stolberg  has  not  y^our  admirable  ease  of  manner, 
nor  your  facility  of  telling  pretty^  nothings,  nor  y^our  — in  a 
word,  that  parti(*ula,r  something  which  makes  y’ou  the  most 
recherche  man  of  the  Faubourg  Saint  Gei:main  ; and  even  I 
avow  to  you  that,  were  I still  y^oung,  and  a coquette,  and  that 
I took  it  into  my  head  to  have  a lover,  I would  prefer  you.’ 


SOME  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS. 


99 


^ All  this  was  said  by  the  Duchess,  with  a certain  air  of 
raillery  and  sucli  a mixture  of  earnest  and  malice,  that  Alonsieur 
de  Belport,  piqued  not  a little,  could  not  help  saying,  as  he 
bowed  profoundly  before  the  Duchess’s  chair,  ‘ And  might  I, 
madam,  be  permitted  to  ask  the  reason  of  this  preference?  ’ 

“ ‘ O mon  Dieu,  oui,’  said  the  Duchess,  always  in  the  same 
tone  ; ‘ because  a lover  like  you  would  never  think  of  carrying 
his  attachment  to  the  height  of  passion  ; and  these  passions,  do 
you  know,  have  frightened  me  all  my  life.  One  cannot  retreat 
at  will  from  the  grasp  of  a passionate  lover ; one  leaves  behind 
one  some  fragment  of  one’s  moral  selj\  or  the  best  part  of 
one’s  physical  life.  A passion,  if  it  does  not  kill  3^011,  adds 
cruelly  to  your  3'ears  ; in  a word,  it  is  the  very  lowest  possible 
taste.  And  now  you  understand  wh}"  I should  prefer  you, 
M.  de  Belport  — you  who  are  reputed  to  be  the  leader  of  the 
fashion.’ 

“ ‘ Perfectl3g’  murmured  the  gentleman,  piqued  more  and 
more. 

“‘Gerard  de  Stolberg  ivill  be  passionate.  I don’t  know 
what  woman  will  please  him,  or  will  be  pleased  b}^  him  ’ (here 
the  Duchess  of  Chalux  spoke  more  gravel3")  ; ‘but  his  love  will 
be  no  plajg  I repeat  it  to  }’ou  once  more.  All  this  astonishes 
3^ou,  because  3'ou,  great  leaders  of  the  ton  that  3^011  are,  never 
fancy  that  a hero  of  romance  should  be  found  among  3"our 
number.  Gerard  de  Stolberg  — but,  look,  here  he  comes  ! ’ 

“ M.  de  Belport  rose,  and  quitted  the  Duchess,  without 
believing  in  her  prophecy  ; but  he  could  not  avoid  smiling  as 
he  passed  near  the  hero  of  romance. 

“It  was  because  M.  de  Stolberg  had  never,  in  all  his 
life,  been  a hero  of  romance,  or  even  an  apprentice-hero  of 
romance. 

“ Gerard  de  Stolberg  was  not,  as  yet,  initiated  into  the 
thousand  secrets  in  the  chronicle  of  the  great  world : he  knew 
but  super ficiall3"  the  society  in  which  he  lived  ; and,  therefore, 
he  devoted  his  evening  to  the  gathering  of  all  the  information 
which  he  could  acquire  from  the  indiscreet  conversations  of  the 
people  about  him.  His  whole  man  became  ear  and  memoiT  ; 
so  much  was  Stolberg  convinced  of  the  necessity  of  becoming  a 
diligent  student  in  this  new  school,  where  was  taught  the  art  of 
knowing  and  advancing  in  the  great  world.  In  the  recess  of  a 
window  he  learned  more  on  this  one  night  than  months  of  in- 
vestigation would  have  taught  liim.  The  talk  of  a ball  is  more 
indiscreet  than  the  confidential  chatter  of  a company  of  idle 


100 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


women.  No  man  present  at  a ball,  whether  listener  or  speaker, 
thinks  he  has  a right  to  affect  any  indulgence  for  his  com- 
panions, and  the  most  learned  in  malice  will  always  pass  for 
the  most  witt}^ 

“ ‘How!’  said  the  Viscount  de  Mondrage  : ‘the  Duchess 
of  Rivesalte  arrives  alone  to-night,  without  her  inevitable 
Uormilly  I ’ — And  the  Viscount,  as  he  spoke,  pointed  towards 
a tall  and  slender  young  woman,  who,  gliding  rather  than 
walking,  met  the  ladies  b}"  whom  she  passed,  with  a graceful 
and  modest  salute,  and  replied  to  the  looks  of  the  men  by  hriU 
limit  veiled  glances  full  of  coquetry  and  attack. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Parbleu ! ’ said  an  elegant  personage  standing  near  the 
Viscount  de  Mondrage,  ‘ don’t  you  see  Dormilly  ranged  behind 
the  Duchess,  in  quality  of  train-bearer,  and  hiding,  under  his 
long  locks  and  his  great  screen  of  moustaches,  the  blushing  con- 
sciousness of  his  good  luck  ? — The}"  call  him  the  fourth  chapter 
of  the  Duchess’s  memoirs.  The  little  Marquise  d’Alberas  is 
ready  to  die  out  of  spite  ; but  the  best  of  the  joke  is,  that  she 
has  only  taken  poor  de  Vendre  for  a lover  in  order  to  vent  her 
spleen  on  him.  Look  at  him  against  the  chimney  yonder ; if 
the  Marchioness  do  not  break  at  once  with  him  by  quitting  him 
for  somebody  else,  the  poor  fellow"  will  turn  an  idiot.’ 

“ ‘ Is  he  jealous  ? ’ asked  a young  man,  looking  as  if  he  did  not 
know'  what  jealousy  was  and  as  if  he  had  no  time  to  be  jealous. 

“ ‘ Jealous  1 the  very  incarnation  of  jealousy  ; the  second  edi- 
tion, revised,  corrected,  and  considerably  enlarged  ; as  jealous 
as  poor  Gressigny,  who  is  dying  of  it.’ 

“‘What!  Gressigny  too?  why,  ’tis  growing  quite  into 
fashion : egad  ! I must  try  and  be  jealous,’  said  Monsieur  de 
Beauval.  ‘ But  see  ! here  comes  the  delicious  Duchess  of  Belle- 
fiore,’  ” &c.  &c.  &c. 

Enough,  enough  : this  kind  of  fashionable  Parisian  conversa- 
tion, which  is,  says  our  author,  “ a prodigious  labor  of  impro- 
vising,” a “ chef-d’oeuvre,”  a “ strange  and  singular  thing,  in 
which  monotony  is  unknown,”  seems  to  be,  if  correctly  reported, 
a “ strange  and  singular  thing”  indeed ; but  somewhat  monot- 
onous at  least  to  an  English  reader,  and  “ prodigious  ” only,  if 
we  may  take  leave  to  say  so,  for  the  w"onderful  rascality  which 
all  the  conversationists  betray.  Miss  Neverout  and  the  Colo- 
nel, in  Swift’s  famous  dialogue,  are  a thousand  times  more 
entertaining  and  moral ; and,  besides,  we  can  laugh  at  those 
worthies  as  well  as  with  them;  whereas  the  “prodigious” 
French  wits  are  to  us  quite  incomprehensible.  Fancy  a duchess 


SOME  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS.  101 


as  old  as  Lady herself,  and  who  should  begin  to  tell  us  “ ol 

I what  she  would  do  if  ever  she  had  a mind  to  take  a lover  ; ” and 
another  duchess,  with  a foui'th  lover,  tripping  modestly  among 
I the  ladies,  and  returning  the  gaze  of  the  men  b3'  veiled  glances, 

I full  of  coquetry  and  attack!  — Parbleu,  if  Monsieur  de  Viel- 
Castel  should  find  himself  among  a society  of  hb-ench  duchesses, 
and  they  shor.ld  tear  his  ej'cs  out,  and  send  the  fashionable 
Orpheus  floating  by  the  Seine,  his  shfughter  mig'it  almost  be 
considered  as  justifiable  Gounticide, 


A GAMBLER’S  DEATH. 


Anybody  who  was  at  C school  some  twelve  years  since, 

must  recollect  Jack  Attwood  : he  was  the  most  dashing  lad  in 
the  place,  with  more  money  in  his  j^ocket  than  belonged  to  the 
whole  fifth  form  in  which  we  were  companions. 

When  he  was  about  fifteen,  Jack  suddenl}"  retreated  from 

C , and  presentl}"  we  heard  that  he  had  a commission  in  a 

cavalry  regiment,  and  was  to  have  a great  fortune  from  his 
father,  when  that  old  gentleman  should  die.  Jack  himself  came 
to  confirm  these  stories  a few  months  after,  and  paid  a visit  to 
his  old  school  chums.  He  had  laid  aside  his  little  school-jacket 
and  ink}^  corduroys,  and  now  appeared  in  such  a splendid  mili- 
tarj^  suit  as  won  the  respect  of  all  of  us.  His  hair  was  dripping 
with  oil,  his  hands  were  covered  with  rings,  he  had  a dusk}^ 
down  over  his  upper  lip  which  looked  not  unlike  a moustache, 
and  a multiplicity  of  frogs  and  braiding  on  his  surtout  which 
would  have  sufficed  to  lace  a field-marshal.  When  old  Swish- 
tail,  the  usher,  passed  in  his  seedy  black  coat  and  gaiters.  Jack 
gave  him  such  a look  of  contempt  as  set  us  all  a-laughing : in 
fact  it  was  his  turn  to  laugh  now ; for  he  used  to  roar  very 
f stoutly  some  months  before,  when  Swishtail  was  in  the  custom 
of  belaboring  him  with  his  great  cane. 

Jack’s  talk  was  all  about  the  regiment  and  the  fine  fellows  in 
it : how  he  had  ridden  a steeple-chase  with  Captain  Boldero, 
and  licked  him  at  the  last  hedge  ; and  how  he  had  very  nearly 
fought  a duel  with  Sir  George  Grig,  about  dancing  with  Lad}" 
Mary  Slamken  at  a bail.  “ I soon  made  the  baronet  know 
what  it  was  to  deal  with  a man  of  the  n — th,”  said  Jack. 
“ Dammee,  sir,  when  I lugged  out  my  barkers,  and  talked  of 
fighting  across  the  mess-room  table.  Grig  turned  as  pale  as  a 
sheet,  or  as  — ” 


A GAMBLER’S  DEATH.  103 

“ Or  as  you  used  to  do,  Attwood,  when  Swishtail  hauled  you 
up,”  piped  out  little  Hicks,  the  foundation-boy. 

It  was  beneath  Jack’s  dignity  to  thrash  anybody',  now,  but  a 
grown-up  baronet ; so  he  let  oif  little  Kicks,  and  passed  over 
the  general  titter  which  was  raised  at  his  expense.  However, 
he  entertained  us  with  his  histories  about  lords  and  ladies,  and 
so-and-so  of  ours,”  until  we  thought  him  one  of  the  greatest 
men  in  his  Majesty’s  service,  and  until  the  school-bell  rung ; 
when,  with  a heavy  heart,  we  got  our  books  together,  and 
marched  in  to  be  whacked  by  old  Swishtail.  I promise  3’ou  he 
revenged  himself  on  us  for  Jack’s  contempt  of  him.  I got  that 
day  at  least  twenty'  cuts  to  my  share,  which  ought  to  have  be- 
longed to  Cornet  Attwood,  of  the  11 — th  dragoons. 

When  we  came  to  think  more  cooll3^  over  our  quondam 
schoolfellow’s  swaggering  talk  and  manner,  we  were  not  quite 
so  impressed  b3’  his  merits  as  at  his  first  appearance  among  us. 
We  recollected  how  he  used,  in  former  times,  to  tell  us  great 
stories,  which  were  so  monstrousl3^  improl)able  that  the  smallest 
bo3^  in  the  school  would  scout  them  ; how  often  we  caught  him 
tripping  in  facts,  and  how  unblushingly  he  admitted  his  little 
errors  in  the  score  of  veracit3'.  He  and  1,  though  never  great 
friends,  had  been  close  companions  : 1 was  Jack’s  form-fellow 
(we  fought  with  amazing  emulation  for  the  last  place  in  the 
class)  ; but  still  I was  rather  hurt  at  the  coolness  of  m3-  old 
comrade,  who  had  forgotten  all  our  former  intimac3^ 
steeple-chases  with  Captain  Boldero  and  his  duel  with  Sir 
George  Grig. 

Nothing  more  was  heard  of  Attwood  for  some  years  ; a tailor 

one  da3^  came  down  to  C , who  had  made  clothes  for  Jack 

in  his  school-da3's,  and  furnished  him  with  regimentals  : he  pro- 
duced a long  biil  for  one  hundred  and  twent3^  pounds  and  up- 
wards, and  asked  where  news  might  be  had  of  his  customer. 
Jack  was  in  India,  with  his  regiment,  shooting  tigers  and  jack- 
als, no  doubt.  Occasionall3%  from  that  distant  country,  some 
magnificent  rumor  would  reach  us  of  his  proceedings.  Once  I 
heard  that  he  had  been  called  to  a court-martial  for  unbecoming 
conduct ; another  time,  that  he  kept  twenty  horses,  and  won  the 
gold  plate  at  the  Calcutta  races.  Presently,  however,  as  the 
recollections  of  the  fifth  form  wore  awa3^.  Jack’s  image  dis- 
appeared likewise,  and  I ceased  to  ask  or  think  about  m3^ 
college  chum. 

A year  since,  as  I was  smoking  m3"  cigar  in  the  “ Estaminet 
du  Grand  Balcon,”  an  excellent  smoking-shop,  where  the  to- 
bacco is  unexceptionable,  and  the  Hollands  of  singular  merit,  a 


104 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


dark-looking,  thick-set  man,  in  a greasy  well-cut  coat,  with  a 
shabby  hat,  cocked  on  one  side  of  his  dirty  face,  took  the  place 
opposite  me,  at  the  little  marble  table,  and  called  for  brand}^  I 
did  not  much  admire  the  impudence  or  the  appearance  of  m}^ 
friend,  nor  the  fixed  stare  with  which  he  chose  to  examine  me. 
At  last,  he  thrust  a great  greasy  hand  across  the  table,  and 
said,  “ Titmarsh,  do  you  forget  your  old  friend  Attwood?’" 

I confess  my  recognition  of  him  was  not  so  joyful  as  on  the 
day  ten  years  earlier,  when  he  had  come,  bedizened  with  lace 

and  gold  rings,  to  see  us  at  C school : a man  in  the  tenth 

part  of  a century  learns  a deal  of  worldty  wisdom,  and  his  hand, 
which  goes  natural^,  forward  to  seize  the  gloved  finger  of  a 
millionnaire,  or  a milor,  draws  instinctively  back  from  a dirty 
fist,  encompassed  b}^  a ragged  wristband  and  a tattered  cuff. 
But  Attwood  was  in  nowise  so  backward  ; and  the  iron  squeeze 
with  which  he  shook  my  passive  paw,  proved  that  he  was  either 
veiy  affectionate  or  very  poor.  You,  m3'  dear  sir,  who  are 
reading  this  histoiy,  know  very  well  the  great  art  of  shaking 
hands  : recollect  how  3'ou  shook  Lord  Dash’s  hand  the  other 
da}^,  and  how  3'ou  shook  ^^poor  Blank,  when  he  came  to  bor- 
row five  pounds  of  3'ou. 

However,  the  genial  influence  of  the  Hollands  speedily  dissi- 
pated aii3'thing  like  coolness  between  us  ; and,  in  the  course  of 
an  hour’s  conversation,  we  became  almost  as  intimate  as  when 
we  were  suffering  together  under  the  ferule  of  old  Swishtail. 
Jack  told  me  that  he  had  quitted  the  arrn}^  in  disgust ; and  that 
his  father,  who  was  to  leave  him  a fortune,  had  died  ten  thou- 
sand pounds  in  debt : he  did  not  touch  upon  his  own  circum- 
stances ; but  I could  read  them  in  his  elbows,  which  were 
peeping  through  his  old  frock.  Pie  talked  a great  deal,  how- 
ever, of  runs  of  luck,  good  and  bad  ; and  related  to  me  an 
infallible  plan  for  breaking  all  the  play -banks  in  Europe  — a 
great  number  of  old  tricks  ; — and  a vast  quantit}’  of  gin-punch 
was  consumed  on  the  occasion  ; so  long,  in  fact,  did  our  con- 
versation continue,  that,  I confess  it  with  shame,  the  sentiment, 
or  something  stronger,  quite  got  the  better  of  me,  and  I have, 
to  this  da}",  no  sort  of  notion  how  our  palaver  concluded.  — 
Onl}',  on  the  next  morning,  I did  not  possess  a certain  five- 
pound  note  which  on  the  previous  evening  was  in  m3"  sketch- 
book (by  far  the  prettiest  drawing  b}"  the  wav  in  the  collection)  ; 
but  there,  instead,  was  a strip  of  paper,  thus  inscribed : — 

I O U 

Pounds.  John  Attwood, 

Late  of  the  N — th  Dragoons. 


A GAMBLER’S  DEATH. 


105 


I I suppose  Attwood  borrowed  the  money,  from  this  remarkable 
I and  ceremonious  acknowledgment  on  his  part : had  I been  sober 
I’  I would  just  as  soon  have  lent  him  tlie  nose  on  my  face  ; for,  in 
m}^  then  circumstances,  the  note  was  of  much  more  consequence 
i\  to  me. 

I As  I lay,  cursing  m3'  ill  fortune,  and  thinking  how  on  earth 
l|  I should  manage  to  subsist  for  the  next  two  months,  Attwood 
?!  burst  into  my  little  garret  — his  face  strangely  flushed  — sing- 
ing and  shouting  as  if  it  had  been  the  night  before.  “ Tit- 
marsh,”  cried  he,  “you  are  m3'  preserver! — 1113^  best  friend! 

' Look  here,  and  here,  and  here  ! ” And  at  ever3'  word  Mr. 
i Attwood  produced  a handful  of  gold,  or  a glittering  heap  of 
I five-franc  pieces,  or  a bundle  of  greasy',  dusk3'  bank-notes,  more 
j beautiful  than  either  silver  or  gold  : — he  had  won  thirteen 
i thousand  francs  after  leaving  me  at  midnight  in  my  garret. 

I He  separated  m3'  poor  little  all,  of  six  pieces,  from  this  shining 
i . and  imposing  collection  ; and  the  passion  of  env3^  entered  my 
: soul : 1 felt  far  more  anxious  now  than  before,  although  star- 

: vation  was  then  staring  me  in  the  face  ; I hated  Attwood  for 

I cheating  me  out  of  all  this  wealth.  Poor  fellow!  it  had  been 
better  for  him  had  he  never  seen  a shilling  of  it. 

However,  a grand  breakfast  at  the  Cafe  Anglais  dissipated 
: m3^  chagrin  ; and  I will  do  m3'  friend  the  justice  to  sa3',  that  he 

I nobl3'  shared  some  portion  of  his  good  fortune  with  me.  As  far 
i as  the  creature  comforts  were  concerned  I feasted  as  well  as 
i he,  and  never  was  particular  as  to  settling  m3"  share  of  the 
I reckoning. 

Jack  now  changed  his  lodgings  ; had  cards,  with  Captain 
Attwood  engraved  on  them,  and  drove  about  a prancing  cab- 
horse,  as  tall  as  the  giraffe  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  ; he  had 
[ as  mau3'  frogs  on  his  coat  as  in  the  old  da3's,  and  frequented 
all  the  flash  restaurateurs’  and  boarding-houses  of  the  capital, 
Madame  de  Saint  Laurent,  and  Madame  la  Baronne  de  Vau- 
dre>',  and  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Jonville,  ladies  of  the  highest 
rank,  who  keep  a snciete  choisie  and  condescend  to  give  dinners 
at  five-francs  a head,  vied  with  each  other  in  their  attentions  to 
Jack.  His  was  the  wing  of  the  fowl,  and  the  largest  portion 
of  the  Charlotte-Russe  ; his  was  the  place  at  the  ecarte  table, 
where  the  Countess  would  ease  him  nightly  of  a few  pieces, 
declaring  that  he  was  the  most  charming  cavalier,  la  fleur 
d’ Albion.  Jack’s  societ3",  it  may  be  seen,  was  not  very  select; 
nor,dn  truth,  were  his  inclinations:  he  was  a careless,  dare- 
devil, Macheath  kind  of  fellow,  who  might  be  seen  daily  with  a 
wife  on  each  arm. 


106 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


It  may  be  supposed  that,  with  the  life  he  led,  his  five  hun- 
dred pounds  of  winnings  would  not  last  him  long  ; nor  did  they  ; 
but,  for  some  time,  his  luck  never  deserted  him  ; and  his  cash, 
instead  of  growing  lower,  seemed  always  to  maintain  a certain 
level : he  plaj^ed  ever}’  night. 

Of  course,  such  a humble  fellow  as  I,  could  not  hope  for  a 
continued  acquaintance  and  intimacy  with  Attwood.  He  grew 
overbearing  and  cool,  I thought ; at  any  rate  I did  not  admire 
my  situation  as  his  follower  and  dependant,  and  left  his  grand 
dinner  for  a certain  ordinary,  where  I could  partake  of  five 
capital  dishes  for  ninepence.  Occasionally,  however,  Attwood 
favored  me  with  a visit,  or  gave  me  a drive  behind  his  great 
cab-horse.  He  had  formed  a whole  host  of  friends  besides. 
There  was  Fips,  the  barrister ; heaven  knows  what  he  was 
doing  at  Paris  ; and  Gortz,  the  West  Indian,  who  was  there 
on  the  same  business,  and  Flapper,  a medical  student,  — all 
these  three  I met  one  night  at  Flapper’s  rooms,  where  Jack  was 
invited,  and  a great  “ spread  ” was  laid  in  honor  of  him. 

Jack  arrived  rather  late  — he  looked  pale  and  agitated  ; and, 
though  he  ate  no  supper,  he  drank  raw  brandy  in  such  a manner 
as  made  Flapper’s  eyes  wink  : the  poor  fellow  had  but  three 
bottles,  and  Jack  bade  fair  to  swallow  them  all.  However, 
the  West  Indian  generously  remedied  the  evil,  and  producing  a 
napoleon,  we  speedily  got  the  change  for  it  in  the  shape  of  four 
bottles  of  champagne. 

Our  supper  was  uproariously  harmonious ; Fips  sung  the 
good  “ Old  English  Gentleman;”  Jack  the  “British  Grena- 
diers ; ” and  your  humble  servant,  when  called  upon,  sang  that 
beautiful  ditty,  “ When  the  Bloom  is  on  the  Rye,”  in  a manner 
that  drew  tears  from  every  eye,  except  Flapper’s,  who  was 
asleep,  and  Jack’s,  who  was  singing  the  “Bay  of  Biscay  O,” 
at  the  same  time.  Gortz  and  Fips  were  all  the  time  lunging  at 
each  other  with  a pair  of  single -sticks,  the  barrister  having  a 
very  strong  notion  that  he  was  Richard  the  Third.  At  last 
^'Fips  hit  the  West  Indian  such  a blow  across  his  sconce,  that 
the  other  grew  furious  ; he  seized  a champagne-bottle,  which 
was,  providentially,  empty,  and  hurled  it  across  the  room  at 
Fips  : had  that  celebrated  barrister  not  bowed  his  head  at  the 
moment,  the  Queen’s  Bench  would  have  lost  one  of  its  most 
eloquent  practitioners. 

Fips  stood  as  straight  as  he  could ; his  cheek  was  pale  with 
wrath.  “ M-m-ister  Go-gortz,”  he  said,  “ I always  heard  you 
were  a blackguard  ; now  I can  pr-pr-peperove  it.  Flapper, 
your  pistols  ! every  ge-ge-genlmn  knows  what  I mean.” 


A GAMBLER’S  DEATH. 


107 


Young  Mr.  Flapper  had  a small  pair  of  pocket-pistols,  which 
the  tips}^  barrister  had  suddenH  remembered,  and  with  which 
he  proposed  to  sacrifice  the  AVest  Indian.  Gortz  was  nothing 
loth,  but  was  quite  as  valorous  as  the  law3T*r. 

Attwood,  who,  in  spite  of  his  potations,  seemed  the  soberest 
man  of  the  party,  had  much  enjo3’ed  tlie  scene,  until  this  sudden 
demand  for  the  weapons.  “ Pshaw  ! ” said  he,  eagerl3",  “ don’t 
give  these  men  the  means  of  murdering  each  other ; sit  down 
and  let  us  have  another  song.”  But  the3’  would  not  be  still ; 
and  Flapper  forthwith  produced  his  pistol-case,  and  opened  it, 
in  order  that  the  duel  might  take  place  on  the  spot.  There 
were  no  pistols  there!  “I  beg  your  pardon,”  said  Attwood, 
looking  much  confused  ; “I  — I took  the  pistols  home  with  me 
to  clean  them  1 ” 

I don’t  know  what  there  was  in  his  tone,  or  in  the  words,  but 
we  were  sobered  all  of  a sudden.  Attwood  was  conscious  of 
the  singular  effect  produced  b3^  him,  for  he  blushed,  and  en- 
deavored to  speak  of  otlier  things,  but  we  could  not  bring  our 
spirits  back  to  the  mark  again,  and  soon  separated  for  the 
night.  As  we  issued  into  the  street  Jack  took  me  aside, 
and  whispered,  “Have  3’ou  a napoleon,  Titmarsh,  in  your 
purse?’  Alas!  I was  not  so  rich.  My  repl3^  was,  that  I 
was  coming  to  Jack,  only  in  the  morning,  to  borrow  a similar 
sum. 

He  did  not  make  ain^  reply,  but  turned  away  homeward : I 
never  heard  him  speak  another  word. 


Two  mornings  after  (for  none  of  our  part3*  met  on  the  cla3" 
succeeding  the  supper) , I was  awakened  b3"  1113^  porter,  who 
brought  a pressing  letter  from  Mr.  Gortz  : — 


“Dear  T.,  — I wish  you  would  come  over  here  to  breakfast.  There’ 
a row  about  Attwood.  Yours  truly, 


“ Solomon  Gortz.” 


I immediatel3"  set  forward  to  Gortz’s  ; he  lived  in  the  Rue 
du  Helder,  a few  doors  from  Attwood’s  new  lodging.  If  the 
reader  is  curious  to  know  the  house  in  which  the  catastrophe  of 
this  history  took  place,  he  has  but  to  march  some  twent3"  doors 
down  from  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  when  he  will  see  a fine 
door,  with  a naked  Cupid  shooting  at  him  from  the  hall,  and  a 
A^enus  beckoning  him  up  the  stairs.  On  arriving  at  the  AYest 
Indian’s,  at  about  mid-da3^  (it  was  a Sunda3Mnorning) , I found 
that  gentleman  in  his  dressing-gown,  discussing,  in  the  com- 
pany of  Mr  Fips,  a large  }Jate  of  bifteck  aux  pommes. 


108 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


“ Here’s  a pretty  row  ! ” said  Gortz,  quoting  from  his  letter ; ' 

— ‘ ‘ Attwood’s  off — have  a bit  of  beefsteak  ? ” 

“ What  do  you  mean?”  exclaimed  I,  adopting  the  familiar  f 
phraseolog}^  of  m3"  acquaintances  : — “ Attwood  off  ? — has  he 
cut  his  stick  ? ” ! 

“ Not  bad,”  said  the  feeling  and  elegant  Fips — “ not  such 
a bad  guess,  mv  bo}’ ; but  he  has  not  exactl}"  cut  his  stick.*’ 

‘‘What  then?” 

“ Why.,  his  throat.”  The  man’s  mouth  was  full  of  bleeding 
beef  as  he  uttered  this  gentlemanl3"  witticism. 

I wish  I could  sa}"  that  1 was  m3'self  in  the  least  affected  b}"  j 
the  news.  I did  not  joke  about  it  like  my  friend  Fips ; this  1 

was  more  for  propriety’s  sake  than  for  feeling’s : but  for  m3"  | 

old  school  acquaintance,  the  friend  of  m3"  early  da3"s,  the  merry  I 
associate  of  the  last  few  months,  I own,  with  shame,  that  I had 
not  a tear  or  a pang.  In  some  German  tale  there  is  an  account 
of  a creature  most  beautiful  and  bewitching,  whom  all  men 
admire  and  follow  ; but  this  charming  and  fantastic  spirit  only 
leads  them,  one  b3"  one,  into  ruin,  and  then  leaves  them.  The 
novelist,  who  describes  her  beaut3",  sa3"s  that  his  heroine  is  a 
faiiy,  and  has  no  heart.  I think  the  intimac3"  which  is  begotten 
over  the  wine-bottle,  is  a spirit  of  this  nature  ; I never  knew  a 
good  feeling  come  from  it,  or  an  honest  friendship  made  b3"  it ; 
it  only  entices  men  and  ruins  them  ; it  is  only  a phantom  of 
friendship  and  feeling,  called  up  b3"  the  delirious  blood,  and  the 
wicked  spells  of  the  wine. 

But  to  drop  this  strain  of  moralizing  (in  which  the  writer 
is  not  too  anxious  to  proceed,  for  he  cuts  in  it  a most  piti- 
ful figure),  we  passed  sundry  criticisms  upon  poor  Attwood’s 
character,  expressed  our  horror  at  his  death  — which  sentiment 
was  fully  proved  b3"  Mr.  Fips,  who  declared  that  the  notion  of 
it  made  him  feel  quite  faint,  and  was  obliged  to  drink  a large 
glass  of  brand3" ; and,  finall3",  we  agreed  that  we  would  go  and 
see  the  poor  fellow’s  corpse,  and  witness,  if  necessaiy,  his 
burial. 

Flapper,  who  had  joined  us,  was  the  first  to  propose  this 
visit : he  said  he  did  not  mind  the  fifteen  francs  which  Jack 
owed  him  for  billiards,  but  he  was  anxious  to  get  hack  his  'pistol. 
Accordingl3%  we  sallied  forth,  and  speedily  arrived  at  the  hotel 
which  Attwood  inhabited  still.  He  had  occupied,  for  a time, 
veiT  fine  apartments  in  this  house  : and  it  was  only  on  arriving 
there  that  day  that  we  found  he  had  been  graduall3"  driven 
from  his  magnificent  suite  of  rooms  au  premier.,  to  a little 
chamber  in  the  fifth  stor3" : — we  mounted,  and  found  him.  It 


A GAMBLER’S  DEATH. 


109 


was  a little  shabby  room,  with  a few  articles  of  rickety  furni- 
tare,  and  a bed  in  an  alcove  ; the  light  from  the  one  window 
was  falling  full  upon  the  bed  and  the  body.  Jack  was  dressed 
in  a fine  lawn  shirt;  he  had  kept  it,  poor  fellow,  to  die  hi;  for 
in  all  his  drawers  and  cupboards  there  was  not  a single  article 
of  clothing;  he  had  pawned  everything  l)}^  which  he  could  raise 
a penny  — desk,  books,  dressing-case,  and  clothes;  and  not  a 
single  halfpen  113^  was  found  in  his  possession.* 

lie  was  h ing  as  I have  drawn  him,|  one  hand  on  his  breast, 
the  other  falling  towards  the  ground.  There  was  an  expression 
of  pei-fect  calm  on  the  face,  and  no  mark  of  blood  to  stain  the 
side  towards  the  light.  On  the  other  side,  however,  there  was 
a great  pool  of  black  blood,  and  in  it  the  pistol ; it  looked  more 
like  a to3'  than  a weapon  to  take  awa^'  the  life  of  this  vigorous 
}^oung  man.  In  his  forehead,  at  the  side,  was  a small  black 
wound ; Jack’s  life  had  passed  through  it ; it  was  little  bigger 
than  a mole. 

“ Regardez  un  pen,”  said  the  landlady,  “messieurs,  il  m’a 
gate  trois  matelas,  et  il  me  doit  quarante  quatre  francs.” 

This  was  all  his  epitaph : he  had  spoiled  three  mattresses, 
and  owed  the  landlady  four-and-fort}'  francs.  In  the  whole 
world  there  was  not  a soul  to  love  him  or  lament  him.  We, 
his  friends,  were  looking  at  his  liodv  more  as  an  object  of 
curiosit}",  watching  it  with  a kind  of  interest  with  which  one 
follows  the  fifth  act  of  a traged}’,  and  leaving  it  with  the  same 
feeling  with  which  one  leaves  the  theatre  when  the  pla^^  is  over 
and  the  curtain  is  down. 

Beside  Jack’s  bed,  on  his  little  “table  de  nuit,”  la}"  the 
remains  of  his  last  meal,  and  an  open  letter,  which  we  read. 
It  was  from  one  of  his  suspicious  acquaintances  of  former  da}"s, 
and  ran  thus  : — 

“ Oil  es  tu,  cher  Jack  why  you  not  come  and  see  me  — tu  me  dois  de  I’ar- 
gent,  entends  tu  ? — un  cliapeau,  une  cachemire,  a of  the  Play.  Viens 
demain  soir,  je  t’attendrai  at  eight  o’clock.  Passage  des  Panoramas.  My  Sir 
is  at  his  country. 

“Adieu  a demain. 

“ Fifine. 

“ Saraedi.” 


* In  order  to  account  for  these  trivial  details,  the  reader  must  be  told 
that  the  story  is,  for  the  chief  part,  a fact;  and  tliat  the  little  sketch  in  this 
page  was  taken  from  nature.  The  letter  was  likewise  a copy  from  one  foun/ 
in  the  manner  described. 

t This  refers  to  an  illustrated  edition  of  the  work. 


110 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


I shuddered  as  I walked  through  this  ver}^  Passage  des 
Panoramas,  in  the  evening.  The  girl  was  there,  pacing  to  and 
fro,  and  looking  in  the  countenance  of  eveiy  passer-by,  to 
recognize  Attwood.  “Adieu  a demain  ! ” — there  was  a 
dreadful  meaning  in  the  words,  which  the  writer  of  them  little 
knew.  “ Adieu  a demain  ! ” — the  morrow  was  come,  and  the 
soul  of  the  poor  suicide  was  now  in  the  presence  of  God.  I 
dare  not  think  of  his  fate  ; for,  except  in  the  fact  of  his  povert}^ 
and  desperation,  was  he  worse  than  any  of  us,  his  companions, 
who  had  shared  his  debauches  and  marched  with  him  up  to 
the  very  brink  of  the  grave  ? • 

There  is  but  one  more  circumstance  to  relate  regarding  poor 
Jack  — his  burial ; it  was  of  a piece  with  his  death. 

He  was  nailed  into  a paltry  coffin  and  buried,  at  the  expense 
of  the  arrondissement,  in  a nook  of  the  burial-place  beyond 
the  Barriere  de  I’Etoile.  They  buried  him  at  six  o’clock,  of  a 
bitter  winter’s  morning,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  an 
English  clergyman  could  be  found  to  read  a service  over  his 
grave.  The  three  men  who  have  figured  in  this  histoiy  acted 
as  Jack’s  mourners  ; and  as  the  ceremony  was  to  take  place  so 
earty  in  the  morning,  these  men  sat  up  the  night  through,  and 
were  almost  drunk  as  they  followed  his  coffin  to  its  resting'- 
place. 


MORAL. 

“ When  we  turned  out  in  our  great-coats,”  said  one  of  them 

afterwards,  “reeking  of  cigars  and  brandy-and- water,  d e, 

sir,  we  quite  frightened  the  old  buck  of  a parson ; he  did  not 
much  like  our  company.”  After  the  ceremony  was  concluded, 
these  gentlemen  were  veiy  happy  to  get  home  to  a warm 
and  comfortable  breakfast,  and  finished  the  day  roj^ally  at 
Frascati’s. 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM. 


ON  PRINCE  LOUIS  NAIOLEON’S  WORK. 


Any  person  who  recollects  the  histoiy  of  the  absurd  out- 
break of  Strasbiirg,  in  which  Prince  Louis  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
figured,  three  years  ago,  must  remember  that,  however  silly 
the  revolt  w^as,  however  foolish  its  pretext,  however  doubtful 
its  aim,  and  inexperienced  its  leader,  tliere  was,  nevertheless, 
a party,  and  a considerable  one  in  France,  that  were  not  un- 
willing to  lend  the  new  projectors  their  aid.  The  troops  who 
declared  against  the  Prince,  w'ere,  it  was  said,  all  but  willing 
to  declare  for  him  ; and  it  w^as  certain  that,  in  many  of  the 
regiments  of  the  army,  there  existed  a strong  spirit  of  disaffec- 
tion, and  an  eager  wish  for  the  return  of  the  imperial  system 
and  family. 

As  to  the  good  that  was  to  be  derived  from  the  change,  that 
is  another  question.  Why  the  Emperor  of  the  French  should 
be  better  than  the  King  of  the  French,  or  the  King  of  the 
French  better  than  the  King  of  France  and  Navarre,  it  is  not 
our  business  to  inquire  ; but  all  the  three  monarchs  have  no 
lack  of  supporters  ; republicanism  has  no  lack  of  supporters  ; 
St.  Simonianism  was  followed  by  a respectable  body  of  admir- 
ers ; Robespierrism  has  a select  part}^  of  friends.  If,  in  a 
countr}'  where  so  many  quacks  have  had  their  day,  Prince 
Louis  Napoleon  thought  he  might  renew  the  imperial  quackeiy, 
why  should  he  not?  It  has  recollections  with  it  that  must 
alwa}’s  be  dear  to  a gallant  nation  ; it  has  certain  claptraps 
in  its  vocabulary  that  can  never  fail  to  inflame  a vain,  restless, 
grasping,  disappointed  one. 

In  the  first  place,  and  don’t  let  us  endeavor  to  disguise  it, 
the}"  hate  us.  Not  all  the  protestations  of  friendship,  not  all 
the  wisdom  of  Lord  Palmerston,  not  all  the  diplomacy  of  our 


112 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


distinguished  plenipotentiaiy,  Mr,  Henry  Lytton  Bulwer  — and 
let  us  add,  not  all  the  benefit  which  both  countries  would  derive 
from  the  alliance  — can  make  it,  in  our  times  at  least,  perma- 
nent and  cordial.  They  hate  us.  The  Carlist  organs  revile  us 
with  a querulous  fuiy  that  never  sleeps  ; the  moderate  part^q  if 
the}^  admit  the  utility  of  our  alliance,  are  continually  pointing 
out  our  treacheiy , our  insolence,  and  our  monstrous  infractions 
of  it ; and  for  the  Republicans,  as  sure  as  the  morning  comes, 
the  columns  of  their  journals  thunder  out  volle3's  of  fierce  denun- 
ciations against  our  unfortunate  country.  The}"  live  by  feeding 
the  natural  hatred  against  England,  by  keeping  old  wounds 
open,  by  recurring  ceaselessly  to  the  history  of  old  quarrels, 
and  as  in  these  we,  by  God’s  help,  by  Land  and  by  sea,  in  old 
times  and  late,  have  had  the  uppermost,  they  perpetuate  the 
shame  and  mortification  of  the  losing  party,  the  bitterness  of 
past  defeats,  and  the  eager  desire  to  avenge  them.  A party 
which  knows  how  to  exploiter  this  hatred  will  always  be  popular 
to  a certain  extent ; and  the  imperial  scheme  has  this,  at  least, 
among  its  conditions. 

Then  there  is  the  favorite  claptrap  of  the  “natural  fron- 
tier.” The  Frenchman  yearns  to  be  bounded  by  the  Rhine 
and  the  Alps;  and  next  follows  the  cry,  “ Let  France  take 
her  place  among  nations,  and  direct,  as  she  ought  to  do,  the 
affairs  of  Europe,”  These  are  the  two  chief  articles  contained 
in  the  new  imperial  programme,  if  we  may  credit  the  journal 
which  has  been  established  to  advocate  the  cause.  A natural 
boundary  — stand  among  the  nations  — popular  development  — 
Russian  alliance,  and  a reduction  of  la  perjide  Albion  to  its 
proper  insignificance.  As  yet  we  know  little  more  of  the 
plan : and  yet  such  foundations  are  sufficient  to  build  a party 
upon,  and  with  such  windy  weapons  a substantial  Government 
is  to  be  overthrown  ! 

In  order  to  give  these  doctrines,  such  as  they  are,  a chance 
of  finding  favor  with  his  countrymen,  Prince  Louis  has  the 
advantage  of  being  able  to  refer  to  a former  great  professor 
of  them — his  uncle  Napoleon.  His  attempt  is  at  once  pious 
and  prudent ; it  exalts  the  memory  of  the  uncle,  and  furthers 
the  interests  of  the  nephew,  who  attempts  to  show  what  Na- 
poleon’s ideas  really  were  ; what  good  had  already  re&ulted 
from  the  practice  of  them  ; how  cruelly  they  had  been  thwarted 
by  foreign  wars  and  difficulties  ; and  what  vast  benefits  would 
have  resulted  from  them  ; ay,  and  (it  is  reasonable  to  con- 
clude) might  still,  if  the  French  nation  would  be  wise  enough 
to  pitch  upon  a governor  that  would  continue  the  interrupted 


THE  DIRECTORY  ESTABLISHED. 


! 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM. 


113 


scheme.  It  is,  however,  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  Em- 
peror Napoleon  had  certain  arguments  in  favor  of  his  opinions 
for  the  time  being,  which  his  nephew  has  not  employed.  On 
the  13th  Vendemiaire,  when  General  Bonaparte  believed  in  the 
excellence  of  a Directory,  it  ma}’  be  remembered  that  he  aided 
his  opinions  by  fort}^  pieces  of  artilleiy,  and  b}-  Colonel  Murat 
at  the  head  of  his  dragoons.  There  was  no  resisting  such 
a philosopher ; the  Directory  was  established  forthwith,  and 
the  sacred  cause  of  the  minority  triumphed.  In  like  manner, 
when  the  General  was  convinced  of  the  weakness  of  the  Direc- 
toiy,  and  saw  fully  the  necessity  of  establishing  a Consulate, 
what  were  his  arguments?  Moreau,  Lannes,  Murat,  Berthier, 
Leclerc,  Lefebvre  — gentle  apostles  of  the  truth  ! — marched 
to  St.  Cloud,  and  there,  with  fixed  ba}’onets,  caused  it  to  pre- 
vail. Error  vanished  in  an  instant.  At  once  five  hundred  of 
its  high-priests  tumbled  out  of  windows,  and  lo  ! three  Consuls 
appeared  to  guide  the  destinies  of  France  ! How  much  more 
expeditious,  reasonable,  and  clinching  was  this  argument  of  the 
18th  Brumaire,  than  any  one  that  can  be  found  in  aiy'  pam- 
phlet ! A fig  for  your  duodecimos  and  octavos  ! Talk  about 
points,  there  are  none  like  those  at  the  end  of  a ba3’onet ; and 
the  most  powerful  of  stjdes  is  a good  rattling  “ article”  from 
a nine-pounder. 

At  least  this  is  our  interpretation  of  the  manner  in  which 
were  alwa}'s  propagated  the  Idees  NapoUoniennes.  Not  such, 
however,  is  Prince  Louis’s  belief ; and,  if  you  wish  to  go  along 
with  him  in  opinion,  }^ou  wdli  discover  that  a more  liberal, 
peaceable,  prudent  Prince  never  existed : you  will  read  that 
“ the  mission  of  Napoleon  ” w'as  to  be  the  “ testamentary  execu- 
tor of  the  revolution ; ” and  the  Prince  should  have  added  the 
legatee  ; or,  more  justl}^  still,  as  well  as  the  executor^  he  should 
be  called  the  executioner^  and  then  his  title  would  be  complete. 
In  Vendemiaire,  the  military  Tartufie,  he  threw  aside  the  Rev- 
olution’s natural  heirs,  and  made  her,  as  it  w^ere,  alter  her  will ; 
on  the  18th  of  Brumaire  he  strangled  her,  and  on  the  19th 
seized  on  her  propert}^  and  kept  it  until  force  deprived  him  of 
it.  Illustrations,  to  be  sure,  are  no  arguments,  but  the  exam- 
ple is  the  Prince’s,  not  ours. 

In  the  Prince’s  eyes,  then,  his  uncle  is  a god ; of  all  mon- 
archs,  the  most  wise,  upright,  and  merciful.  Thirty  years  ago 
the  opinion  had  millions  of  supporters  ; while  millions  again 
were  ready  to  avouch  the  exact  contraiy.  It  is  curious  to  think 
of  the  former  difference  of  opinion  concerning  Napoleon  ; and, 
in  reading  his  nephew’s  rapturous  encomiums  of  him,  one  goes 

8 


114 


THE  PARTS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


back  to  the  cla3's  when  we  ourselves  were  as  loud  and  mad  iu 
his  dispraise.  Who  does  not  remember  his  own  personal  ha- 
tred and  horror,  twent3^-five  3’ears  ago,  for  the  man  whom  we 
used  to  call  the  “ blood3'  Corsican  upstart  and  assassin?” 
What  stories  did  we  not  believe  of  him?  — what  murders,  rapes, 
robberies,  not  la3'  to  his  charge?  — we  who  were  living  within 
a few  miles  of  his  territoiy,  and  might,  1)3'  books  and  news- 
papers, be  made  as  well  acquainted  with  his  merits  or  demerits 
as  ary  of  his  own  countrymen. 

Then  was  the  age  when  the  Idees  Napoleoniennes  might  have 
passed  through  mau3'  editions  ; for  while  we  were  thus  outra- 
geousl3'  bitter,  our  neighbors  wei’e  as  extravagantl3^  attached  to 
him  b3'  a strange  infatuation  — adored  him  like  a god,  whom 
we  chose  to  consider  as  a fiend  ; and  vowed  that,  under  his 
government,  their  nation  had  attained  its  highest  pitch  of  gran- 
deur and  glory.  In  revenge  there  existed  in  England  (as  is 
proved  b>'  a thousand  authentic  documents)  a monster  so  hid- 
eous, a t3'rant  so  ruthless  and  blood3',  that  the  world’s  history 
cannot  show  his  parallel.  This  ruffian’s  name  was,  during  the 
early  part  of  the  French  revolution,  Pittetcobourg.  Pittetco- 
bourg’s  emissaries  were  in  every  corner  of  France ; Pittetco- 
bourg’s  gold  chinked  in  the  pockets  of  every  traitor  in  Europe  ; 
it  menaced  the  life  of  the  godlike  Robespierre  ; it  drove  into 
cellars  and  fits  of  delirium  even  the  gentle  philanthropist  Ma- 
rat ; it  fourteen  times  caused  the  dagger  to  be  lifted  against  the 
bosom  of  the  First  Consul,  Emperor,  and  King, — that  first, 
great,  glorious,  irresistible,  cowardly,  contemptible,  bloody  hero 
and  fiend,  Bonaparte,  before  mentioned. 

On  oui-  side  of  the  Channel  we  have  had  leisure,  long  since, 
to  re-consider  our  verdict  against  Napoleon  ; though,  to  be 
sure,  we  have  not  changed  our  opinion  about  Pittetcobourg. 
After  five-and-thirty  years  all  parties  bear  witness  to  his  hon- 
esty, and  speak  with  affectionate  reverence  of  his  patriotism, 
his  genius,  and  his  private  virtue.  In  France,  howo'er,  or,  at 
least  among  certain  parties  in  France,  there  has  been  no  such 
modification  of  opinion.  With  the  Republicans,  Pittetcobourg 
is  Pittetcobourg  still, — craft3',  bloody,  seeking  whom  he  ma3' 
devour ; and  perfi.de  Albion  more  perfidious  than  ever.  This 
hatred  is  the  point  of  union  between  the  Republic  and  the  Em- 
pire ; it  has  been  fostered  ever  since,  and  must  be  continued  hy 
Ib’ince  Louis,  if  he  would  hope  to  conciliate  both  parties. 

With  regard  to  the  Emperor,  then,  Prince  Louis  erects  to 
his  memory  as  fine  a monument  as  his  wits  can  raise.  One 
need  not  say  that  the  imperial  apologist’s  opinion  should  be 


NAPOLEON  AND  lIIS  SYSTEM. 


115 


received  with  the  utmost  caution  ; for  a man  who  has  such  a 
hero  for  an  uncle  ma}’  naturall}’  be  proud  of  and  partial  to  him  ; 
and  when  this  nephew  of  the  great  man  would  be  his  heir  like- 
wise, and,  bearing  his  name,  step  also  into  his  imperial  shoes, 
one  may  reasonably  look  for  much  affectionate  panegyric. 
“The  empire  was  the  best  of  eni[)ires,”  cries  the  Prince;  and 
possibl}'  it  was  ; undoubtedl}',  the  Prince  thinks  it  was  ; but  he 
is  the  veiy  last  person  who  would  con\  inee  a man  with  the  proper 
suspicious  impartiality.  One  i-emembers  a certain  consultation 
of  politicians  which  is  recorded  in  the  Spelling-book  ; and  the 
opinion  of  that  patriotic  sage  who  avowed  that,  for  a real 
blameless  constitution,  an  impenetrable  shield  for  liberty,  and 
cheap  defence  of  nations,  there  was  nothing  like  leather. 

Let  us  examine  some  of  the  Prince’s  article.  If  we  ma}’  lie 
allowed  humbly  to  express  an  opinion,  his  leather  is  not  only 
quite  insufficient  for  those  vast  public  purposes  for  which  he 
destines  it,  but  is,  moreover,  and  in  itself,  veiy  bad  leatJier.  The 
hides  are  poor,  small,  unsound  slips  of  skin  ; or,  to  drop  this 
cobbling  metaphor,  the  style  is  not  particularly  brilliant,  the 
facts  not  very  startling,  and,  as  for  the  conclusions,  one  may 
differ  with  almost  eveiy  one  of  them.  Here  is  an  extract  from 
his  first  chapter,  “ on  governments  in  general : ” — 

“ I speak  it  with  regret,  I can  see  but  two  governments,  at 
this  da}’,  which  fulfil  the  mission  that  Providence  has  confided 
to  them  ; they  are  the  two  colossi  at  the  end  of  the  world  ; one 
at  the  extremity  of  the  old  world,  the  other  at  the  extremit}’  of 
the  new.  Whilst  our  old  European  centre  is  as  a volcano,  con- 
suming itself  in  its  crater,  the  two  nations  of  the  East  and  the 
West,  march  without  hesitation,  towards  perfection  ; the  one 
under  the  will  of  a single  individual,  the  other  under  libert}^ 

“Providence  has  confided  to  the  United  States  of  North 
America  the  task  of  peopling  and  civilizing  that  immense  ter- 
ritoiy  which  stretches  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  South  Sea,  and 
from  the  North  Pole  to  the  Equator.  The  Government,  which 
is  only  a simple  administration,  has  only  hitherto  been  called 
upon  to  put  in  practice  the  old  adage,  Laissez  faire^  laissez 
passer^  in  order  to  favor  that  irresistible  instinct  which  pushes 
the  people  of  America  to  the  west. 

“ 111  Russia  it  is  to  the  imperial  dynasty  that  is  owing  all 
the  vast  progress  which,  in  a centuiy  and  a half,  has  rescued 
that  empire  from  barbarism.  The  imperial  power  must  con 
tend  against  all  the  ancient  prejudices  of  our  old  Europe  : it 
must  centralize,  as  far  as  possible,  all  the  powers  of  the  state 
in  the  hands  of  one  person,  in  order  to  destroy  the  abuses 


116 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


which  the  feudal  and  communal  franchises  have  served  to  per- 
petuate. The  last  alone  can  hope  to  receive  from  it  the  im- 
provements which  it  expects. 

“But  thou,  France  of  Plenry  IV.,  of  Louis  XIV.,  of  Car- 
not, of  Napoleon  — thou,  who  wert  alwa3^s  for  the  west  of 
Europe  the  source  of  progress,  who  possessest  in  th^^self  the 
two  great  pillars  of  empire,  the  genius  for  the  arts  of  peace 
and  the  genius  of  war  — hast  thou  no  further  mission  to  fulfil  ? 
Wilt  thou  never  cease  to  waste  th}'  force  and  energies  in  intes- 
tine struggles?.  No;  such  cannot  be  th}^  destin}^ : the  daj^ 
will  soon  come,  when,  to  govern  thee,  it  will  be  necessaiy  to 
understand  that  th}"  part  is  to  place  in  all  treaties  th}"  sword  ol 
Brennus  on  the  side  of  civilization.” 

These  are  the  conclusions  of  the  Prince’s  remarks  upon 
governments  in  general ; and  it  must  be  supposed  that  the 
reader  is  A^eiy  little  wiser  at  the  end  than  at  the  beginning. 
But  two  governments  in  the  world  fulfil  their  mission  : the  one 
government,  which  is  no  government ; the  other,  which  is  a 
despotism.  The  duty  of  France  is  in  all  treaties  to  place  her 
sword  of  Brennus  in  the  scale  of  civilization.  Without  quar- 
relling with  the  somewhat  confused  language  of  the  latter  prop- 
osition, may  we  ask  what,  in  heaven’s  name,  is  the  meaning  of 
all  the  three?  What  is  this  epee  de  Brennus’^  and  how  is 
France  to  use  it?  Where  is  the  great  source  of  political  truth, 
from  which,  flowing  pure,  we  trace  American  republicanism  in 
one  stream,  Russian  despotism  in  another?  Vastl}^  prosperous 
is  the  great  republic,  if  3’ou  will : if  dollars  and  cents  consti- 
tute happiness,  there  is  plent3"  for  all : but  can  an3^  one,  who 
4ias  read  of  the  American  doings  in  the  late  frontier  troubles, 
and  the  dail3^  disputes  on  the  slave  question,  praise  the  Govern- 
ment of  the  States  ? — a Government  which  dares  not  punish 
homicide  or  arson  performed  before  its  veiy  eyes,  and  which 
the  pirates  of  Texas  and  the  pirates  of  Canada  can  brave  at 
their  will?  There  is  no  government,  but  a prosperous  anaix;h3^ ; 
as  the  Prince’s  other  favorite  government  is  a prosperous  sla- 
veiy.  AVhat,  then,  is  to  be  the  eph  de  Brennus  government? 
Is  it  to  be  a mixture  of  the  two?  “ Societ3^”  writes  the 
Prince,  axiomaticall3%  “contains  in  itself  two  principles  — the 
one  of  progress  and  immortalit3",  the  other  of  disease  and  dis- 
organization.” No  doubt ; and  as  the  one  tends  towards  lib- 
erty, so  the  other  is  01113^  to  be  cured  b3^^  order : and  then,  with 
a singular  felicit3’.  Prince  Louis  picks  us  out  a couple  of  gov- 
ernments, in  one  of  which  the  common  regulating  power  is  as 
notorioush"  too  w^eak,  as  it  is  in  the  other  too  strong,  and  talks 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM. 


117 


In  rapturous  terms  of  the  manner  in  which  they  fulfil  their 
“ providential  mission  ! ” 

From  these  considerations  on  things  in  general,  the  Prince 
conducts  us  to  Napoleon  in  particular,  and  enters  largely  into 
a discussion  of  the  merits  of  the  imperial  system.  Our  author 
speaks  of  the  Emperor’s  advent  in  the  following  grandiose 
wa}^ : — 

“Napoleon,  on  arriving  at  the  public  stage,  saw  that  his 
part  was  to  be  the  testamentary  executor  of  the  Revolution. 
The  destructive  fire  of  parties  was  extinct ; and  when  the  Revo- 
lution, dying,  but  not  vanquished,  delegated  to  Napoleon  the 
accomplishment  of  her  last  will,  she  said  to  him,  ‘ Establish 
upon  solid  bases  the  principal  result  of  my  efforts.  Unite 
divided  Frenchmen.  Defeat  feudal  Europe  that  is  leagued 
against  me.  Cicatrize  my  wounds.  Enlighten  the  nations. 
Execute  that  in  width,  which  I have  had  to  perform  in  depth. 
Be  for  Emrope  what  I have  been  for  France.  And,  even  if 
you  must  water  the  tree  of  civilization  with  your  blood  — if 
you  must  see  }^our  projects  misunderstood,  and  your  sons  with- 
out a country,  wandering  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  never 
abandon  the  sacred  cause  of  the  French  people.  Insure  its 
triumph  by  all  the  means  which  genius  can  discover  and  hu- 
manity approve.’ 

“ This  grand  mission  Napoleon  performed  to  the  end.  His 
task  was  difficult.  lie  had  to  place  upon  new  principles  a 
society  still  boiling  with  hatred  and  revenge  ; and  to  use,  for 
building  up,  the  same  instruments  which  had  been  employed 
for  pulling  down. 

“The  common  lot  of  eveiy  new  truth  that  arises,  is  to 
wound  rather  than  to  convince  — rather  than  to  gain  prose- 
lytes, to  awaken  fear.  For,  oppressed  as  it  long  has  been,  it 
rushes  forward  with  additional  force ; having  to  encounter 
obstacles,  it  is  compelled  to  combat  them,  and  overthrow  them  ; 
'until,  at  length,  comprehended  and  adopted  by  the  generality, 
it  becomes  the  basis  of  new  social  order. 

“ LiberU^  will  follow  the  same  march  as  the  Christian  relig- 
ion. Armed  with  death  from  the  ancient  societ}^  of  Rome,  it 
for  a long  while  excited  the  hatred  and  fear  of  the  people.  At 
last,  b}'  force  of  martyrdoms  and  persecutions,  the  religion  of 
Christ  penetrated  into  the  conscience  and  the  soul ; it  soon  had 
kings  and  armies  at  its  orders,  and  Constantine  and  Charle- 
magne bore  it  triumphant  throughout  Europe.  Religion  then 
laid  down  her  arms  of  war.  It  laid  open  to  all  the  principles 
of  peace  and  order  which  it  contained  ; it  l)ecame  the  prop  of 


118 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Government,  as  it  was  the  organizing  element  of  society. 
Thus  will  it  be  with  liberty.  In  1793  it  frightened  people  and 
sovereigns  alike  ; then,  having  clothed  itself  in  a milder  garb, 
it  insinuated  itself  everywhere  in  the  train  of  our  battalions.  In 
1815  all  parties  adopted  its  flag,  and  armed  themselves  with 
its  moral  force  — covered  themselves  with  its  colors.  The 
adoption  was  not  sincere,  and  liberty  was  soon  obliged  to  re- 
assume its  warlike  accoutrements.  AVith  the  contest  their  fears 
returned.  Let  us  hope  that  the}’  will  soon  cease,  and  that  lib- 
erty will  soon  resume  her  peaceful  standards,  to  quit  them  no 
more. 

“The  Emperor  Napoleon  contributed  more  than  any  one 
else  towards  accelerating  the  reign  of  liberty,  by  saving  the 
moral  influence  of  the  revolution,  and  diminishing  the  fears 
which  it  imposed.  A¥ithout  the  Consulate  and  the  Empire,  the 
revolution  would  have  been  onl}’  a grand  drama,  leaving  grand 
revolutions  but  no  traces : the  revolution  would  have  been 
drowned  in  the  counter-revolution.  The  contrary,  however, 
was  the  case.  Napoleon  rooted  the  revolution  in  France,  and 
introduced,  throughout  Europe,  the  principal  benefits  of  the 
crisis  of  1789.  To  use  his  own  words,  ‘ He  purified  the  revolu- 
tion, he  confirmed  kings,  and  ennobled  people.’  He  purified  the 
revolution,  in  separating  the  truths  which  it  contained  from  the 
passions  that,  during  its  delirium,  disfigured  it.  He  ennobled 
the  people  in  giving  them  the  consciousness  of  their  force,  and 
those  institutions  which  raise  men  in  their  own  eyes.  The 
Emperor  may  be  considered  as  the  Messiah  of  the  new  ideas  ; 
for  — and  we  must  confess  it  — in  the  moments  immediately 
succeeding  a social  revolution,  it  is  not  so  essential  to  put 
rigidly  into  practice  all  the  propositions  resulting  from  the  new 
theory,  but  to  become  master  of  the  regenerative  genius,  to 
identify  one’s  self  with  the  sentiments  of  the  people,  and  boldly 
to  direct  them  towards  the  desired  point.  To  accomplish  such 
a task  your  fibre  should  respond  to  that  of  the  people,  as  the  Em- 
peror said  ; you  should  feel  like  it,  your  interests  should  be  so 
intimately  raised  with  its  own,  that  you  should  vanquish  or  fall 
together.” 

Let  us  take  breath  after  these  big  phrases,  — grand  round 
figures  of  speech,  — which,  when  put  together,  amount  like 
certain  other  combinations  of  round  figures  to  exactly  0.  We 
shall  not  stop  to  argue  the  merits  and  demerits  of  Prince  Louis’s 
notable  comparison  between  the  Christian  religion  and  the 
Imperial-revolutionary  system.  There  are  many  blunders  in 
the  above  extract  as  we  read  it ; blundering  metaphors,  blunder- 


NAPOLEON  AND  HTS  SYSTEM. 


119 


ing  arguments,  and  bhiiHlering  assertions;  but  this  is  surely 
the  grandest  blunder  of  all ; and  one  wonders  at  the  blindness'^ 
of  the  legislator  and  historian  who  can  advance  such  a parallel. 
And  what  are  we  to  say  of  the  legacy  of  the  dying  revolution 
to  Napoleon?  Revolutions  do  not  die,  and,  on  their  death- 
beds, making  fine  speeches,  hand  over  their  property  to  young 
officers  of  artilleiy.  We  have  all  read  the  history  of  his  rise. 
The  constitution  of  the  j^ear  III.  was  carried.  Old  men  of  the 
Montague,  disguised  royalists,  Paris  sections,  Pittetcobourg^ 
above  all,  with  his  money-bags,  thought  that  here  was  a fine 
opportunity  for  a revolt,  and  opposed  the  new  constitution  in 
arms  : the  new  constitution  had  knovdedge  of  a young  officer 
who  would  not  hesitate  to  defend  its  cause,  and  wlio  effectually 
beat  the  majority.  The  tale  mav  be  found  in  every  account  of 
the  revolution,  and  the  rest  of  his  story  need  not  be  told.  We 
know  every  step  that  he  took  : we  know  how,  lyy  doses  of 
cannon-balls  promptly  administered,  he  cured  tlie  fever  of  the 
sections  — that  fever  which  another  camp-physician  (Menou) 
declined  to  prescribe  for ; we  know  how  he  abolished  the  Di- 
rectory ; and  how  the  Consulship  came  ; and  then  the  Empire  ; 
and  then  the  disgrace,  exile,  and  lonely  death.  Has  not  all 
this  been  written  by  historians  in  all  tongues?  — b}'  memoir- 
writing  pages,  chamberlains,  marshals,  lackeys,  secretaries, 
contemporaries,  and  ladies  of  honor?  Not  a word  of  miracle 
is  there  in  all  this  narration  ; not  a word  of  celestial  missions, 
or  political  Messiahs.  From  Napoleon’s  rise  to  his  fall,  the 
baj’onet  marches  alongside  of  him  : now  he  points  it  at  the 
tails  of  the  scampering  ^ five  hundred,”  — now  he  charges  with 
it  across  the  bloody  planks  of  Areola  — now  he  flies  before  it 
over  the  fatal  plain  of  Waterloo. 

Unwilling,  however,  as  he  may  be  to  grant  that  there  are 
an}^  spots  in  the  character  of  his  hero’s  government,  the  Prince 
is,  nevertheless,  obliged  to  allow  that  such  existed  ; that  the 
Emperor’s  manner  of  rule  was  a little  more  abrupt  and  dicta- 
torial than  might  possibly  be  agreeable.  For  this  the  Prince 
has  alwa}^s  an  answbr  readj"  — it  is  the  same  poor  one  that 
Napoleon  uttered  a million  of  times  to  his  companions  in 
exile  — the  excuse  of  necessit}'.  He  would  have  been  very 
liberal,  but  that  the  people  were  not  fit  for  it ; or  that  the 
cursed  war  prevented  him  — or  any  other  reason  why.  His 
first  duty,  however,  says  his  apologist,  was  to  form  a gen- 
eral union  of  Frenchmen,  and  he  set  about  his  plan  in  this 
wise : — 

“ Let  us  not  forget,  that  all  which  Napoleon  undertook,  in 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


L2b 


order  to  create  a general  fusion,  he  performed  without  re> 
iiouncing  the  principles  of  the  revolution.  He  recalled  the 
emigre's^  without  touching  upon  the  law  which  their  goods 
had  been  confiscated  and  sold  as  public  property.  He  re- 
established the  Catholic  religion  at  the  same  time  that  he  pro- 
claimed the  libert}'  of  conscience,  and  endowed  equally  the 
ministers  of  all  sects.  Pie  caused  himself  to  be  consecrated  by 
the  Sovereign  Pontiff,  without  concedi ug  to  the  Pope’s  demand 
any  of  the  liberties  of  the  Gallican  church.  He  married  a 
daughter  of  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  without  abandoning  any 
of  the  rights  of  France  to  the  conquests  she  had  made.  He  re- 
established noble  titles,  without  attaching  to  them  any  privi- 
leges or  prerogatives,  and  these  titles  were  conferred  on  all 
ranks,  on  all  services,  on  all  professions.  Under  the  empire 
all  idea  of  caste  was  destro}’ed  ; no  man  ever  thought  of  vaunt- 
ing his  pedigree  — no  man  ever  was  asked  how  he  was  born, 
but  what  he  had  done. 

“ The  first  quality  of  a people  which  aspires  to  liberal  gov- 
ernment, is  respect  to  the  law.  Now,  a law  has  no  other  power 
than  lies  in  the  interest  which  each  citizen  has  to  defend  or  to 
contravene  it.  In  order  to  make  a people  respect  the  law,  it 
was  necessary  that  it  should  be  executed  in  the  interest  of  all, 
and  should  consecrate  the  princii)le  of  equality  in  all  its  exten- 
sion. It  was  necessaiy  to  restore  the  prestige  with  which  the 
Government  had  been  formerly  invested,  and  to  make  the  prin- 
ciples of  tlie  revolution  take  root  in  the  public  manners.  At 
the  commencement  of  a new  society,  it  is  the  legislator  who 
makes  or  corrects  the  manners  ; later,  it  is  the  manners  which 
make  the  law,  or  preserve  it  from  age  to  age  intact.” 

Some  of  these  fusions  are  amusing.  No  man  in  the  empire 
was  asked  how  he  was  born,  but  ^hat  he  had  done;  and,  ac- 
cordingly, as  a man’s  actions  were  sufficient  to  illustrate  him, 
the  Emperor  took  care  to  make  a host  of  new  title-bearers, 
princes,  dukes,  barons,  and  wliat  not,  whos^  rank  has  de- 
scended to  their  children.  He  married  a princess  of  Austria; 
but,  for  all  that,  did  not  abandon  his  conquests  — perhaps  not 
actually  ; but  he  abandoned  his  allies,  and,  eventually,  his  whole 
kingdom.  Who  does  not  recollect  his  answer  to  the  Poles,  at 
the  commencement  of  the  Russian  campaign?  But  for  Napo- 
leon’s imperial  father-in-law,  Poland  would  have  been  a king- 
dom, and  his  race,  perhaps,  imperial  still.  Why  was  he  to 
fetch  this  princess  out  of  Austria  to  make  heirs  for  his  throne  r 
Why  did  not  the  man  of  the  people  marry  a girl  of  the  people? 
Why  must  he  have  a Pope  to  crown  him  — half  a dozen  kings 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM. 


121 


for  brothers,  and  a bevy  of  aides-de-camp  dressed  out  like  so 
many  mountebanks  from  Astley’s,  with  dukes’  coronets,  and 
grand  blue  velvet  marslials’ batons?  We  have  repeatedly  his 
words  for  it.  He  wanted  to  create  an  aristocracy  — another 
acknowledgment  on  his  part  of  the  Republican  dilemma  — 
another  apology  for  the  revolutionary  blunder.  To  keep  the  re- 
public within  bounds,  a despotism  is  necessaiy ; to  rall}^  round 
the  despotism,  an  aristocracy  must  be  created  ; and  for  what 
have  we  been  laboring  all  this  while?  for  what  have  bastiles 
been  battered  down,  and  king’s  heads  hurled,  as  a gage  of 
battle,  in  the  face  of  armed  Europe?  To  have  a Duke  of 
Otranto  instead  of  a Duke  de  la  Tremouille,  and  Emperor  Stork 
in  place  of  King  Log.  O lame  conclusion  ! Is  the  blessed 
revolution  which  is  prophesied  for  us  in  England  011I3'  to  end  in 
establishing  a Prince  PYrgus  O’Connor,  or  a Cardinal  Wade,  or 
a Duke  Daniel  Whittle  Harve}"?  Great  as  those  patriots  are, 
we  love  them  better  under  their  simple  famil}’  names,  and  scorn 
titles  and  coronets. 

At  present,  in  France,  the  delicate  matter  of  titles  seems  to 
be  better  arranged,  any  gentleman,  since  the  Revolution,  being 
free  to  adopt  any  one  he  ma}^  fix  upon  ; and  it  appears  that  the 
Crown  no  longer  confers  any  patents  of  nobility,  but  contents 
itself  with  saying,  as  in  the  case  of  M.  de  Pontois,  the  other 
da}%  “ Le  Roi  tronve  conveyiahle  that  3'ou  take  the  title  of,”  &c. 

To  execute  the  legacy  of  the  revolution,  then  ; to  fulfil  his 
providential  mission;  to  keep  his  place,  — in  other  words,  for 
the  simplest  are  alwa^'S  the  best,  — to  keep  his  place,  and  to 
keep  his  Government  in  decent  order,  the  Emperor  was  obliged 
to  establish  a military  despotism,  to  re-establish  honors  and 
titles ; it  was  necessaiy,  as  the  Prince  confesses,  to  restore  the 
old  prestige  of  the  Government,  in  order  to  make  the  people  re- 
spect it ; and  he  adds  — a truth  which  one  hardly  would  expect 
from  him,  — ‘‘At  the  commencement  of  a new  society,  it  is 
the  legislator  who  makes  and  corrects  the  manners  ; later,  it 
is  the  manners  which  preserve  the  laws.”  Of  course,  and  here 
is  the  great  risk  that  all  revolutionizing  people  run  — the}'  must 
tend  to  despotism  ; “ they  must  personify  themselves  in  a mao,” 
is  the  Prince’s  phrase  ; and,  according  as  is  his  temperament  or 
disposition  — according  as  he  is  a Cromwell,  a Washington, 
or  a Napoleon  — the  revolution  becomes  tyranny  or  freedom, 
prospers  or  falls. 

Somewhere  in  the  St.  Helena  memorials,  Napoleon  reports 
a message  of  his  to  the  Pope.  “ Tell  the  Pope,”  he  says  to 
an  archbishop,  “ to  remember  that  I have  six  hundred  thousand 


122 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


armed  Frenchmen,  qui  marcheront  avec  moi^  pour  moi^  et  comme 
moi.”  And  this  is  the  legac}^  of  the  revolution,  the  advance- 
ment of  freedom  ! A hundred  volumes  of  imperial  special 
pleading  will  not  avail  against  such  a speech  as  this  — one  so 
insolent,  and  at  the  same  time  so  humiliating,  which  gives  un- 
wittingly the  whole  of  the  Emperor’s  progress,  strength,  and 
weakness.  The  six  hundred  thousand  armed  Frenchmen  were 
used  up,  and  the  whole  fabric  falls  ; the  six  hundred  thousand 
are  reduced  to  sixty  thousand,  and  straightway  all  the  rest  of 
the  fine  imperial  scheme  vanishes  : the  miserable  senate,  so 
crawling  and  abject  but  now,  becomes  of  a sudden  endowed 
with  a wondrous  independence ; the  miserable  sham  nobles, 
sham  empress,  sham  kings,  dukes,  princes,  chamberlains,  pack 
up  their  plumes  and  embroideries,  pounce  upon  what  mone}’  and 
plate  thc3^  can  la}^  their  hands  on,  and  when  the  allies  appear 
before  Paris,  when  for  courage  and  manliness  there  is  \"et  hope, 
when  with  fierce  marches  hastening  to  the  relief  of  his  capital, 
bursting  through  ranks  upon  ranks  of  the  enem}^,  and  crushing 
or  scattering  them  from  the  path  of  his  swift  and  victorious  de- 
spair, the  Emperor  at  last  is  at  home, — where  are  the  great 
dignitaries  and  the  lieutenant-generals  of  the  empire?  Where 
is  Maria  Louisa,  the  Empress  Eagle,  with  her  little  callow  king 
of  Rome?  Is  she  going  to  defend  her  nest  and  her  eaglet? 
Not  she.  Empress-queen,  lieutenant-general,  and  court  digni- 
taries, are  off  on  the  wings  of  all  the  winds  — profligati  sunt^ 
the}^  are  awaj^  with  the  monej'-bags,  and  Louis  Stanislas  Xavier 
rolls  into  the  palace  of  his  fathers. 

With  regard  to  Napoleon’s  excellences  as  an  administrator, 
a legislator,  a constructor  of  public  works,  and  a skilful  finan- 
cier, his  nephew  speaks  with  much  diffuse  praise,  and  few  per- 
sons, we  suppose,  will  be  disposed  to  contradict  him.  Whether 
the  Emperor  composed  his  famous  code,  or  borrowed  it,  is  of 
little  importance  ; but  he  established  it,  and  made  the  law  equal 
for  eveiy  man  in  France  except  one.  His  vast  public  works 
and  vaster  wars  were  carried  on  without  new  loans  or  exor- 
bitant taxes  ; it  was  only  the  blood  and  liberty  of  the  people 
that  were  taxed,  and  we  shall  want  a better  advocate  than 
Prince  Louis  to  show  us  that  these  were  not  most  unnecessaril}' 
and  lavishl}^  thrown  away.  As  for  the  former  and  material  im- 
provements, it  is  not  necessary  to  confess  here  that  a despotic 
energy  can  effect  such  far  more  readil}^  than  a Government  of 
which  the  strength  is  diffused  in  many  conflicting  parties.  No 
doubt,  if  we  could  create  a despotical  governing  machine, 
a steam  autocrat, — passionless,  untiring,  and  supreme,  — we 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM. 


123 


should  advance  further,  and  live  more  at  ease  than  under 
any  other  form  of  government.  Ministers  might  enjoy  their 
pensions  and  follow  their  own  devices ; Lord  John  might 
compose  histories  or  ti’agedies  at  his  leisure,  and  Lord 
Palmerston,  instead  of  racking  his  brains  to  write  leading 
articles  for  Cupid,  might  crown  his  locks  with  flowers,  and 
sing  cpwToe  juovvoi',  his  natural  Anacreontics  ; but  alas  I not  so  : 
if  the  despotic  Government  has  its  good  side.  Prince  Louis 
Napoleon  must  acknowledge  that  it  has  its  bad,  and  it  is 
for  this  that  the  civilized  world  is  compelled  to  substitute  for 
it  something  more  orderly  and  less  capricious.  Good  as  the 
Imperial  Government  might  have  been,  it  must  be  recollected, 
too,  that  since  its  first  fall,  both  the  Phnperor  and  his  admirer 
and  would-be  successor  have  had  their  chance  of  re-establishing 
it.  “Fly  from  steeple  to  steeple  ” the  eagles  of  the  former 
did  actuall}^,  and  according  to  promise  perch  for  a while  on  the 
towers  of  Notre  Dame.  We  know  the  event : if*  the  fate  of  war 
declared  against  the  Emperor,  the  countiy  declared  against  him 
too ; and,  with  old  Lafa^^ette  for  a mouthpiece,  the  representa- 
tives of  the  nation  did,  in  a neat  speech,  pronounce  themselves 
in  permanence,  but  spoke  no  more  of  the  Emperor  than  if  he 
had  never  been.  Thereupon  the  Emperor  proclaimed  his  son 
the  Emperor  Napoleon  II.  “ L’Einpereur  est  mort,  vive  I’Em- 
pereur  ! ” shouted  Prince  Lucien.  Psha  ! not  a soul  echoed  the 
words  : the  pla}'  was  played,  and  as  for  old  Lafayette  and  his 
“ permanent”  representatives,  a corporal  with  a hammer  nailed 
up  the  door  of  their  spouting-club,  and  once  more  Louis  Stanis- 
las Xavier  rolled  back  to  die  bosom  of  his  people. 

In  like  manner  Napoleon  III.  returned  from  exile,  and  made 
his  appearance  on  the  frontier.  II is  eagle  appeared  at  Stras- 
burg,  and  from  Strasburg  advanced  to  the  capital ; but  it  arrived 
at  Paris  with  a keeper,  and  in  a post-chaise  ; whence.  In'  the 
orders  of  the  sovereign,  it  was  removed  to  the  American  shores, 
and  there  magnanimousl}'  let  loose.  Who  knows,  however, 
how  soon  it  may  be  on  the  wing  again,  and  what  a flight  it  will 
take  ? 


THE  STOEY  OF  MARY  ANCEL. 


“Go,  my  nephew,”  said  old  Father  Jacob  to  me,  “and 
complete  thy  studies  at  Strasburg  : Heaven  surel}"  hath  ordained 
thee  for  the  ministry  in  these  times  of  trouble,  and  my  excellent 
friend  Schneider  will  work  out  the  divine  intention.” 

Schneider  was  an  old  college  friend  of  uncle  Jacob’s,  was  a 
Benedictine  monk,  and  a man  famous  for  his  learning ; as  for 
me,  I was  at  that  time  my  uncle’s  chorister,  clerk,  and  sacris- 
tan ; I swept  the  church,  chanted  the  prayers  with  m}^  shrill 
treble,  and  swung  the  great  copper  incense-pot  on  Sundays  and 
feasts  ; and  I toiled  over  the  Fathers  for  the  other  daj's  of  the 
week. 

The  old  gentleman  said  that  m3"  progress  was  prodigious, 
and,  without  vanit}",  I believe  he  was  right,  for  I then  veril}" 
considered  that  pra3ung  was  m3"  vocation,  and  not  fighting,  as 
T have  found  since. 

You  would  hardh"  conceive  (said  the  Captain,  swearing  a 
great  oath)  how  devout  and  how  learned  I was  in  those  days  ; 
I talked  Latin  faster  than  1113"  own  beautiful  patois  of  Alsacian 
French  ; I could  utterly  OA^erthrow  in  argument  eveiy  Protest- 
ant (heretics  we  called  them)  parson  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
there  was  a confounded  sprinkling  of  these  unbelievers  in  our 
part  of  the  country.  I prayed  half  a dozen  times  a day ; I 
fasted  thrice  in  a week ; and,  as  for  penance,  I used  to  scourge 
my  little  sides,  till  the3"  had  no  more  feeling  than  a peg-top : 
such  was  the  godly  life  I led  at  my  uncle  Jacob’s  in  the  village 
of  Steinbach. 

Our  family  had  long  dwelt  in  this  place,  and  a large  farm 
and  a pleasant  house  were  then  in  the  possession  of  another 
uncle  — uncle  Edward.  He  was  the  3"oungest  of  the  three  sons 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL. 


125 


of  grandfather ; but  Jacob,  the  elder,  had  shown  a decided 
vocation  for  the  church,  from,  I believe,  the  age  of  three,  and 
now  was  b}"  no  means  tired  of  it  at  sixty.  My  father,  who  was 
to  have 'inherited  the  paternal  property,  was,  as  I hear,  a terrible 
scamp  and  scapegrace,  quarrelled  with  his  family,  and  dis- 
appeared altogether,  living  and  dying  at  Paris  ; so  far  we  knew 
through  my  mother,  who  came,  poor  woman,  with  me,  a child 
of  six  months,  on  her  bosom,  was  refused  all  shelter  b}-  m3' 
grandfather,  but  was  housed  and  kindl3^  cared  for  b}^  m3'  good 
uncle  Jacob. 

Here  she  lived  for  about  seven  3’ears,  and  the  old  gentleman, 
when  she  died,  wept  over  her  grave  a great  deal  more  than  I 
did,  who  was  then  too  young  to  mind  anything  but  toys  or 
sweetmeats. 

During  this  time  m3'  grandfather  was  likewise  carried  off ; 
he  left,  as  I said,  the  property  to  his  son  Edward,  with  a small 
proviso  in  his  will  that  something  should  be  done  for  me,  his 
grandson. 

Edward  was  himself  a widower,  with  one  daughter,  Mar3', 
about  three  3^ears  older  than  I,  and  certain^'  she  was  the  dear- 
est little  treasure  with  which  Providence  ever  blessed  a miserty 
father;  b3^  the  time  she  was  fifteen,  five  farmers,  three  lawyers, 
twelve  Protestant  parsons,  and  a lieutenant  of  Dragoons  had 
made  her  offers  : it  must  not  be  denied  that  she  was  an  heiress 
as  well  as  a beaut3',  which,  perhaps,  had  something  to  do  with 
the  love  of  these  gentlemen.  However,  Maiy  declared  that 
she  intended  to  live  single,  turned  awa3'  her  lovers  one  after 
another,  and  devoted  herself  to  the  care  of  her  father. 

Uncle  Jacob  was  as  fond  of  her  as  he  was  of  an3^  saint  or 
mart3'r.  As  for  me,  at  the  mature  age  of  twelve  I had  made  a 
kind  of  divinit3' of  her,  and  when  we  sang  “ Ave  Maria”  on 
Sunda3^s  I could  not  refrain  from  turning  to  her,  where  she 
knelt,  blushing  and  pra3ung  and  looking  like  an  angel,  as  she 
was.  Besides  her  beaut3',  Maiy  had  a thousand  good  qualities  ; 
she  could  pla3^  better  on  the  harpsichord,  she  could  dance  more 
lightl3q  she  could  make  better  pickles  and  puddings,  than  aiy' 
girl  in  Alsace  ; there  was  not  a want  or  a fan 03'  of  the  old  hunks 
her  father,  or  a wish  of  mine  or  my  uncle’s,  that  she  would  not 
gratify  if  she  could  ; as  for  herself,  the  sweet  soul  had  neither 
wants  nor  wishes  except  to  see  us  happy. 

I could  talk  to  3'ou  for  a 3'ear  of  all  the  pretty  kindnesses  that 
she  would  do  for  me  ; how,  when  she  found  me  of  earty  morn- 
ings among  1113^  books,  her  presence  “ would  cast  a light  upon 
the  day  ; ” how  she  used  to  criiooMi  and  fold  my  little  surplice, 


126 


THE  PARTS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


and  embroider  me  caps  and  gowns  for  high  feast-days ; how 
she  used  to  bring  flowers  for  the  altar,  and  who  could  deck  it 
so  well  as  she  ? But  sentiment  does  not  come  glibly  from  under 
a grizzled  moustache,  so  I will  drop  it,  if  you  please. 

Amongst  other  favors  she  showed  me,  Maiy  used  to  be  par- 
ticularl}’  fond  of  kissing  me  : it  was  a thing  I did  not  so  much 
value  in  those  da3’s,  but  I found  that  the  more  I grew  alive  to 
the  extent  of  the  benefit,  the  less  she  would  condescend  to  con- 
fer it  on  me  ; till  at  last,  when  I was  about  fourteen,  she  dis- 
continued it  altogether,  of  her  own  wish  at  least ; onl}"  some- 
times I used  to  be  rude,  and  take  what  she  had  now  become  so 
mighty  unwilling  to  give. 

I was  engaged  in  a contest  of  this  sort  one  da}"  with  Mary, 
when,  just  as  I was  about  to  carry  off*  a kiss  from  her  cheek,  I 
was  saluted  with  a staggering  slap  on  my  own,  which  was  be- 
stowed by  uncle  Edward,  and  sent  me  reeling  some  yards  down 
the  garden. 

The  old  gentleman,  whose  tongue  was  generally  as  close  as 
his  purse,  now  poured  forth  a flood  of  eloquence  which  quite 
astonished  me.  I did  not  think  that  so  much  was  to  be  said 
on  any  subject  as  he  managed  to  utter  on  one,  and  that  was 
abuse  of  me  ; he  stamped,  he  swore,  he  screamed ; and  then, 
from  complimenting  me,  he  turned  to  Mary,  and  saluted  her 
in  a manner  equally  forcible  and  significant ; she,  who  was  very 
much  frightened  at  the  commencement  of  the  scene,  grew  very 
angry  at  the  coarse  words  he  used,  and  the  wicked  motives  he 
imputed  to  her. 

‘‘The  child  is  but  fourteen,”  she  said;  “he  is  your  own 
nephew,  and  a candidate  for  holy  orders  : — father,  it  is  a shame 
that  you  should  thus  speak  of  me,  your  daughter,  or  of  one  of 
his  holy  profession.” 

I did  not  particularly  admire  this  speech  myself,  but  it  had 
an  effect  on  my  uncle,  and  was  the  cause  of  the  words  with  which 
this  history  commences.  The  old  gentleman  persuaded  his 
brother  that  I must  be  sent  to  Strasburg,  and  there  kept  until 
my  studies  for  the  church  were  concluded.  I was  furnished 
with  a letter  to  my  uncle’s  old  college  chum.  Professor  Schneider, 
who  was  to  instruct  me  in  theology  and  Greek. 

I was  not  sorry  to  see  Strasburg,  of  the  wonders  of  which  I 
had  heard  so  much ; but  felt  very  loth  as  the  time  drew  near 
when  I must  quit  my  pretty  cousin,  and  my  good  old  uncle. 
Mary  and  I managed,  however,  a parting  walk,  in  which  a 
number  of  tender  things  were  said  on  both  sides.  I am  told 
that  you  Englishmen  consider  it  cowardly  to  cry  ; as  for  me,  I 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANGEL. 


127 


I wept  and  roared  incessantl}^ : wlien  Mary  squeezed  me,  for  the 

ilast  time,  the  tears  came  out  of  me  as  if  I had  been  neither 
more  nor  less  than  a great  wet  sponge.  My  cousin’s  eyes  were 
stoically  dry ; her  ladyship  had  a [)art  to  pla^q  and  it  would 
have  been  wrong  for  her  to  be  in  love  with  a .young  chit  of  four- 
teen— so  she  carried  herself  with  perfect  coolness,  as  if  there 
was  nothing  the  matter.  I should  not  have  known  that  she 
cared  for  me,  had  it  not  been  for  a letter  which  she  wrote  me  a 
mouth  afterwards  — then^  nobody  w^as  by,  and  the  consequence 
was  that  the  letter  was  half  washed  away  with  her  weeping ; if 
she  had  used  a watering-pot  the  thing  could  not  have  been  better 
done. 

Well,  I arrived  at  Strasburg  — a dismal,  old-fashioned, 
ricket}^  town  in  those  days  — and  straightwaj^  presented  my- 
self and  letter  at  Schneider’s  door ; over  it  was  written  — 

I COMITE  DE  SALUT  PUBLIC. 

Would  3'ou  believe  it?  I was  so  ignorant  a 3^oung  fellow, 
that  I had  no  idea  of  the  meaning  of  the  words  ; however,  I 
entered  the  citizen’s  room  without  fear,  and  sat  down  in  his 
ante-chamber  until  I could  be  admitted  to  see  him. 

Here  I found  very  few  indications  of  his  reverence’s  pro- 
fession ; the  walls  were  hung  round  with  portraits  of  Robes- 
pierre, Marat,  and  the  like  ; a great  bust  of  Mirabeau,  mutilated, 
with  the  word  Trcdtre  underneath  ; lists  and  republican  procla- 
mations, toba,cco-pipes  and  fire-arms.  At  a deal-table,  stained 
with  grease  and  wine,  sat  a gentleman,  with  a huge  pigtail 
dangling  down  to  that  part  of  his  pei’son  which  immediatel3" 
succeeds  his  back,  and  a red  nightcap,  containing  a tricolor 
cockade  as  large  as  a pancake.  He  was  smoking  a short  pipe, 
reading  a little  book,  and  sobbing  as  if  his  heart  would  break. 
Eveiy  now  and  then  he  would  make  brief  remarks  upon  the 
personages  or  the  incidents  of  his  book,  b3"  which  I could  judge 
that  he  was  a man  of  the  veiy  keenest  sensibilities  — ‘"Ah, 
brigand  ! ” “ O malheureuse  ! ” “ O Charlotte,  Charlotte  ! ” 

The  work  which  this  gentleman  w^as  perusing  is  called  “The 
Sorrows  of  Werter  ; ” it  was  all  the  rage  in  those  days,  and  1113' 
friend  was  only  following  the  fashion.  I asked  him  if  I could 
see  Father  Schneider?  he  turned  towards  me  a hideous,  pimpled 
face,  which  I dream  of  now  at  fort3"  3"ears’  distance. 

“ Father  who?  ” said  he.  “Do  3^011  imagine  that  citizen 
Schneider  has  not  thrown  off  the  absurd  muinmeiy  of  priest- 
hood? If  you  were  a little  older  you  would  go  to  prison  for 
calling  him  Father  Schneider  — many  a man  has  died  for  less 


128 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


and  he  pointed  to  a picture  of  a guillotine,  which  was  hanging 
in  the  room. 

I was  in  amazement. 

“What  is  he?  Is  he  not  a teacher  of  Greek,  an  abbe,  a 
monk,  until  monasteries  were  abolished,  the  learned  editor  of 
the  songs  of  ‘ Anacreon  ? ’ ” 

“ He  was  all  this,”  replied  my  grim  friend;  “ he  is  now  a 
Member  of  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety",  and  would  think  no 
more  of  ordering  \’Our  head  off  than  of  drinking  this  tumbler  of 
beer.” 

He  swallowed,  himself,  the  froth3Hiquid,  and  then  proceeded 
to  give  me  the  history  of  the  man  to  whom  my  uncle  had  sent 
me  for  instruction. 

Schneider  was  born  in  1756  : was  a student  at  Wurzburg, 
and  afterwards  entered  a convent,  where  he  remained  nine  yeai  s. 
He  here  became  distinguished  for  his  learning  and  his  talents  as 
a preacher,  and  became  chaplain  to  Duke  Charles  of  Wiirtem- 
berg.  The  doctrines  of  the  Illuminati  began  about  this  time  to 
spread  in  German}',  and  Schneider  speedily  joined  the  sect. 
Pie  had  been  a professor  of  Greek  at  Cologne  ; and  being  com- 
pelled, on  account  of  his  irregularity,  to  give  up  his  chair,  he 
came  to  Strasburg  at  the  commencement  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, and  acted  for  some  time  a principal  part  as  a revolutionaiy 
agent  at  Strasburg. 

[“Heaven  knows  what  would  have  happened  to  me  had  I 
continued  long  under  his  tuition ! ” said  the  Captain.  “ I owe 
the  preservation  of  my  morals  entirely  to  my  entering  the  arm}^ 
A man,  sir,  who  is  a soldier,  has  very  little  time  to  be  wicked  ; 
except  in  the  case  of  a siege  and  the  sack  of  a town,  when  a 
little  license  can  offend  nobody.”] 

By  the  time  that  my  friend  had  concluded  Schneider’s  biog- 
raphy, we  had  grown  tolerably  intimate,  and  I imparted  to 
him  (with  that  experience  so  remarkable  in  youth)  my  whole 
history  — my  course  of  studies,  my  pleasant  country  life,  the 
names  and  qualities  of  my  dear  relations,  and  my  occupations 
in  the  vestry  before  religion  was  abolished  by  order  of  the  Re- 
public. In  the  course  of  my  speech  I recurred  so  often  to  the 
name  of  my  cousin  Mar}",  that  the  gentleman  could  not  fail  to 
perceive  what  a tender  place  she  had  in  my  heart. 

Then  we  reverted  to  “ The  Sorrows  of  Werter,”  and  dis- 
cussed the  merits  of  that  sublime  performance.  Although  I had 
before  felt  some  misgivings  about  my  new  acquaintance,  my 
heart  now  quite  yearned  towards  him.  He  talked  about  love 
and  sentiment  in  a manner  which  made  me  recollect  that  I was 


THE  8T0RY  OF  MARY  ANGEL. 


129 


in  love  m3^self ; and  3^011  know  that  when  a man  is  in  that  con- 
dition, his  taste  is  not  very  refined,  an3"  maudlin  trash  of  prose 
or  verse  appearing  sublime  to  him,  provided  it  correspond,  in 
some  degree,  with  his  own  situation. 

“ Candid  3'outh  ! ” cried  my  unknown,  “ I love  to  hear  tli3' 
innocent  story  and  look  on  tli3'  guileless  face.  There  is,  alas  ! 
so  much  of  the  coutraiy  iii  this  world,  so  much  terror  and  crime 
and  blood,  that  we  who  mingle  with  it  are  onl)'  too  glad  to  for- 
get it.  Would  that  we  could  shake  off  our  cares  as  men,  and 
be  boys,  as  thou  art,  again ! ” 

Here  my  friend  began  to  weep  once  more,  and  fondl3'  shook 
m3’  hand.  1 blessed  m3’  stars  that  1 had,  at  the  veiy  outset 
of  m3’  career,  met  with  one  who  was  so  likel3’  to  aid  me.  What 
a slanderous  world  it  is,  thought  I ; the  people  in  our  village 
call  these  Republicans  wicked  and  bloody-minded  ; a lamb  could 
not  be  more  tender  than  this  sentimental  bottle-nosed  gentleman  ! 
The  wortly’  man  then  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  held  a 
place  under  Government.  I was  bus3’  in  endeavoring  to  dis- 
cover what  his  situation  might  be,  when  the  door  of  the  next 
apartment  opened,  and  Schneider  made  his  appearance. 

At  first  he  did  not  notice  me,  but  he  advanced  to  my  new 
acquaintance,  and  gave  him,  to  1113’  astonishment,  something 
veiy  like  a blow. 

“ Y^ou  drunken,  talking  fool,”  he  said,  “ 3’ou  are  always  after 
your  time.  Fourteen  people  are  cooling  their  heels  3’onder, 
waiting  until  3^011  have  finished  3’our  beer  and  3’our  sentiment  I ” 

My  friend  slunk  muttering  out  of  the  room. 

“ That  fellow,”  said  Schneider,  turning  to  me,  “ is  our  public 
executioner : a capital  hand  too  if  he  would  but  keep  decent 
time  ; but  the  brute  is  alwa3’s  drunk,  and  blubbering  over  ‘ The 
Sorrows  of  Werter  ! ’ ” 

I know  not  whether  it  was  his  old  friendship  for  m3'  uncle, 
or  my  proper  merits,  which  won  the  heart  of  this  the  sternest 
rufffan  of  Robespierre’s  crew ; but  certain  it  is,  that  he  became 
strangely  attached  to  me,  and  kept  me  constantly  about  his 
person.  As  for  the  priesthood  and  the  Greek,  the3’  were  of 
course  very  soon  out  of  the  question.  The  Austrians  were  on 
our  frontier ; every  day  brought  us  accounts  of  battles  won  ; 
and  the  youth  of  Strasburg,  and  of  all  France,  indeed,  were 
bursting  with  military  ardor.  As  for  me,  I shared  the  general 
mania,  and  speedil3’  mounted  a cockade  as  large  as  that  of  my 
friend,  the  executioner. 

The  occupations  of  this  worth3'  were  unremitting.  Saint 

9 


130 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Just,  who  had  come  down  from  Paris  to  preside  over  our  town^ 
executed  the  laws  and  the  aristocrats  with  terrible  punctuality  ; 
and  Schneider  used  to  make  countiy  excursions  in  search  of 
offenders  with  this  fellow,  as  a provost- marshal,  at  his  back. 
In  the  meantime,  having  entered  my  sixteenth  year,  and  being 
a proper  lad  of  m3'  age,  I had  joined  a regiment  of  cavalry,  and 
was  scampering  now  after  the  Austrians  who  menaced  us,  and 
now  threatening  the  Emigres,  who  were  banded  at  Coblentz. 
M}’  love  for  my  dear  cousin  increased  as  mj^  whiskers  grew  ; 
and  when  I was  scarcely  seventeen,  I thought  myself  man 
enough  to  many  her,  and  to  cut  the  throat  of  an}"  one  who 
should  venture  to  say  me  nay. 

I need  not  tell  you  that  during  my  absence  at  Strasburg, 
great  changes  had  occurred  in  our  little  village,  and  somewhat 
of  the  revolutionary  rage  iiad  penetrated  even  to  that  quiet  and 
distant  place.  The  hideous  “ h'ete  of  the  Supreme  Being  ” had 
been  celebrated  at  Paris  ; the  practice  of  our  ancient  religion 
was  forbidden  ; its  professors  were  most  of  them  in  conceal- 
ment, or  in  exile,  or  had  expiated  on  the  scaffold  their  crime  of 
Christianity.  In  our  poor  village  my  uncle’s  church  was  closed, 
and  he,  himself,  an  inmate  in  m3'  brother’s  house,  011I3'  owing 
his  safety  to  his  great  popularit}'  among  his  former  flock,  and 
the  influence  of  Edward  Ancel. 

The  latter  had  taken  in  the  Revolution  a somewhat  promi- 
nent part ; that  is,  he  had  engaged  in  man}'  contracts  for  the 
army,  attended  the  clubs  regularly,  corresponded  with  the  au- 
thorities of  his  department,  and  was  loud  in  his  denunciations 
of  the  aristocrats  in  the  neighborhood.  But  owing,  perhaps,  to 
the  German  origin  of  the  peasantry,  and  their  quiet  and  rustic 
lives,  the  revolutionary  fury  which  prevailed  in  the  cities  had 
hardly  reached  the  countiy  people.  The  occasional  visit  of  a 
commissaiy  from  Paris  or  Strasburg  served  to  keep  the  flame 
^alive,  and  to  remind  the  rural  sw'ains  of  the  existence  of  a 
j Republic  in  France. 

Now  and  then,  when  I could  gain  a week’s  leave  of  absence, 
I returned  to  the  village,  and  was  received  w"ith  tolerable  polite- 
ness b}"  m3'  uncle,  and  with  a warmer  feeling  b}'  his  daughter. 

I won’t  describe  to  3'ou  the  [irogress  of  our  love,  or  the  w"rath 
of  my  uncle  Edward,  when  he  discovered  that  it  still  continued. 
He  sw'ore  and  he  stormed  ; he  locked  Maiy  into  her  chamber, 
and  vowed  that  he  would  withdraw  the  allowance  he  made  me, 
if  ever  I ventured  near  her.  His  daughter,  he  said,  should  never 
many  a hopeless,  penniless  subaltern  ; and  Mary  declared  she 
would  not  many  without  his  consent.  What  had  I to  do  ? — 


THE  STORY  OF  MAUI  YNCEL. 


131 


to  despair  and  to  leave  her.  As  for  iny  poor  uncle  Jacob,  lie 
had  no  counsel  to  give  me,  and,  indeed,  no  spirit  left : his 
little  church  was  turned  into  a stable,  his  surplice  torn  off  his 
shoulders,  and  he  was  onl}^  too  luck}’  in  keeping  his  head  on 
them.  A bright  thought  struck  him  : suppose  you  were  to  ask 
the  advice  of  1113’  old  friend  Schneider  regarding  this  marriage? 
he  has  ever  been  3'our  friend,  and  ma3’^  help  3'ou  now  as  bC' 
fore. 

(Here  the  Captain  paused  a little.)  You  ma}'  fanc}’  (con^ 
tinned  he)  that  it  was  droll  advice  of  a reverend  gentleman 
like  uncle  Jacob  to  counsel  me  in  this  manner,  and  to  bid  me 
make  friends  with  such  a murderous  cut-throat  as  Schneider; 
but  we  thought  nothing  of  it  in  those  days  ; guillotining  was  as 
common  as  dancing,  and  a man  was  onh^  thought  the  better 
patriot  the  more  severe  he  might  be.  1 departed  forthwith  to 
Strasburg,  and  requested  the  vote  and  intei’est  of  the  Citizen 
President  of  the  Committee  of  Public  Safet3^ 

He  heard  me  with  a great  deal  of  attention.  I described 
to  liim  most  minutel}^  the  circumstance,  expatiated  upon  the 
charms  of  m3"  dear  Mary,  and  painted  her  to  him  from  head  to 
foot.  Her  golden  hair  and  her  bright  blushing  cheeks,  her 
slim  waist  and  her  tripping  tiii3"  feet ; and  furthermore,  I added 
that  she  possessed  a fortune  which  ought,  b3"  rights,  to  be 
mine,  but  for  the  miserly  old  father.  “Curse  him  for  an 
aristocrat ! ” concluded  I,  in  m3"  wrath. 

As  I had  been  discoursing  about  Maiy’s  charms  Schneider 
listened  with  much  complacenc3"  and  attention  : when  I spoke 
about  her  fortune,  his  interest  redoubled  ; and  when  I called 
her  father  an  aristocrat,  the  wortli3"  ex- Jesuit  gave  a grin  of 
satisfaction,  which  was  really  quite  terrible.  O fool  that  I was 
to  trust  him  so  far  ! 

The  veiy  same  evening  an  officer  waited  upon  me  with  the 
following  note  from  Saint  Just : — 

“ Strasburg,  Fifth  }"ear  of  the  Republic,  one  and 
indivisible,  11  Ventose. 

“ The  citizen  Pierre  Ancel  is  to  leave  Strasburg  within  two  hours,  and 
to  carry  the  enclosed  despatches  to  the  President  of  the  Committee  of 
Public  Safety  at  Paris.  The  necessary  leave  of  absence  from  his  military 
duties  has  been  provided.  Instant  punishment  will  follow  the  slightest 
delay  on  the  road.  Salut  et  Fraternite'.” 

There  was  no  choice  but  obedience,  and  off  I sped  on^my 
weary  way  to  the  capital. 


132 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


As  I was  riding  out  of  the  Paris  gate  I met  an  equipage 
which  I knew  to  be  that  of  Schneider.  The  ruffian  smiled  at 
me  as  I passed,  and  wished  me  a bon  voyage.  Behind  his 
chariot  came  a curious  machine,  or  cart ; a great  basket,  three 
stout  poles,  and  several  planks,  all  painted  red,  were  lying  in 
this  vehicle,  on  the  top  of  which  was  seated  my  friend  with  the 
big  coekade.  It  was  the  portable  guillotine  which  Schneider 
always  carried  with  him  on  his  travels.  The  bourreau  was 
reading  “ The  Sorrows  of  Werter,”  and  looked  as  sentimental 
as  usual. 

I will  not  speak  of  my  voyage  in  order  to  relate  to  you 
Schneider’s.  My  story  had  awakened  the  wretch’s  curiosity 
and  avarice,  and  he  was  determined  that  such  a prize  as  I had 
shown  my  cousin  to  be  should  fall  into  no  hands  but  his  own. 
No  sooner,  in  fact,  had  I quitted  his  room  than  he  procured 
the  order  for  my  absence,  and  was  on  the  way  to  Steinbach  as 
I met  him. 

The  journey  is  not  a very  long  one  ; and  on  the  next  day 
my  uncle  Jacob  was  surprised  b}’  receiving  a message  that  the 
citizen  Schneider  was  in  the  village,  and  was  coming  to  greet 
his  old  friend.  Old  Jacob  was  in  an  ecstas3%  for  he  longed  to 
see  his  college  acquaintance,  and  he  hoped  also  that  Schneider 
had  come  into  that  part  of  the  countr}"  upon  the  marriage- 
business  of  3’our  humble  servant.  Of  course  Mary  was  sum- 
moned to  give  her  best  dinner,  and  wear  her  best  frock ; and 
her  father  made  read3^  to  receive  the  new  State  dignitary. 

Schneider’s  carriage  speedily  rolled  into  the  court-3"ard,  and 
Schneider’s  cart  followed,  as  a matter  of  course.  The  ex- priest 
onl3"  entered  the  house  ; his  companion  remaining  with  the 
horses  to  dine  in  private.  Here  was  a most  touching  meeting 
between  him  and  Jacob.  The3^  talked  over  their  old  college 
pranks  and  successes  ; the3"  capped  Greek  verses,  and  quoted 
ancient  epigrams  upon  their  tutors,  who  had  been  dead  since 
the  Seven  Years’  War.  Mar3^  declared  it  was  quite  touching  to 
listen  to  the  merry  friendly  talk  of  these  two  old  gentlemen. 

After  the  conversation  had  continued  for  a time  in  this 
strain,  Schneider  drew  up  all  of  a sudden,  and  said  quietl3', 
that  he  had  come  on  particular  and  unpleasant  business  — 
hinting  about  troublesome  times,  spies,  evil  reports,  and  so 
forth.  Then  he  called  uncle  Edward  aside,  and  had  with  him  a 
long  and  earnest  conversation:  so  Jacob  went  out  and  talked 
with  Schneider’s  friend;  they  speedily  became  very  intimate, 
for  the  ruffian  detailed  all  the  circumstances  of  his  interview 
with  me.  When  he  returned  into  the  house,  some  time  after 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANGEL. 


133 


this  pleasing  colloquy,  he  found  the  tone  of  the  society  strangely 
altered.  Edward  Ancel,  pale  as  a sheet,  trembling,  and  crying 
for  mercy ; poor  Maiy  weeping ; and  Schneider  pacing  ener- 
getically about  the  apartment,  raging  about  the  rights  of 
man,  the  punishment  of  traitors,  and  the  one  and  indivisible 
Republic. 

“Jacob,”  he  said,  as  my  uncle  entered  the  room,  “ I was 
willing,  for  the  sake  of  our  old  friendship,  to  forget  the  crimes 
of  your  brother.  He  is  a known  and  dangerous  aristocrat ; he 
holds  communications  with  the  enemy  on  the  frontier ; he  is  a 
possessor  of  great  and  ill-gotten  wealth,  of  which  he  has  plun- 
dered the  Republic.  Do  3’ou  know,”  said  he,  turning  to  lulward 
Ancel,  “ where  the  least  of  these  crimes,  or  the  mere  suspicion 
of  them,  would  lead  you?” 

Poor  Edward  sat  trembling  in  his  chair,  and  answered  not  a 
word.  He  knew  full  well  how  quickly,  in  this  dreadful  time, 
punishment  followed  suspicion  ; and,  though  guiltless  of  all 
treason  with  the  enemy,  perhaps  he  was  aware  that,  in  certain 
contracts  with  the  Government,  he  had  taken  to  himself  a more 
than  patriotic  share  of  pro  tit. 

“ Do  you  know,”  resumed  Schneider,  in  a voice  of  thunder, 
“ for  what  purpose  1 came  hither,  and  b}’  whom  I am  accom^ 
panied  ? I am  the  administrator  of  the  justice  of  the  Republic. 
The  life  of  yourself  and  3"our  famil3"  is  in  my  hands  : 3’onder 
man,  who  follows  me,  is  the  executor  of  the  law  ; he  has  rid 
the  nation  of  hundreds  of  wretches  like  yourself.  A single 
word  from  me,  and  3'our  doom  is  sealed  without  hope,  and  3’our 
last  hour  is  come.  Ho!  Gregoire  I ” shouted  he;  “is  all 
ready  ? ” 

Gregoire  replied  from  the  court,  “ I can  put  up  the  machine 
in  half  an  hour.  Shall  I go  down  to  the  village  and  call  the 
troops  and  the  law  people  ? ” 

“Do  you  hear  him?”  said  Schneider.  “The  guillotine 
is  in  the  court-3’ard  ; 3'our  name  is  on  my  list,  and  I have 
witnesses  to  prove  3^our  crime.  Have  3’Ou  a word  in  3’our 
defence  ? ” 

Not  a word  came ; the  old  gentleman  was  dumb  ; but  his 
daughter,  who  did  not  give  way  to  his  terror,  spoke  for  him. 

“ Y^ou  cannot,  sir,”  said  she,  “although  3^011  say  it,  feel 
that  my  father  is  guilt3^ ; 3^011  would  not  have  entered  our  house 
thus  alone  if  30U  had  thought  it.  Y^ou  threaten  him  in  this 
manner  because  3'ou  have  something  to  ask  and  to  gain  from 
us  : what  is  it,  citizen?  — tell  us  how  much  3’ou  value  our  lives, 
and  what  sum  we  are  to  pa}^  for  our  ransom?  ” 


134 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


“ Sum  ! ” said  uncle  Jacob  ; “ he  does  not  want  money  of 
us  : my  old  friend,  m3'  college  chum,  does  not  come  hither  to 
drive  bargains  with  an3'bod3'  belonging  to  Jacob  Ancel?” 

“Oh,  no,  sir,  no,  you  can’t  want  money  of  us,”  shrieked 
Edward;  “we  are  the  poorest  people  of  the  village:  ruined. 
Monsieur  Schneider,  ruined  in  the  cause  of  the  Republic.” 
“Silence,  father,”  said  my  brave  Maiy ; “ this  man  wants 
a price : he  comes,  with  his  wortli}'  friend  yonder,  to  frighten 
ns,  not  to  kill  us.  If  we  die,  he  cannot  touch  a sou  of  our 
mone}' ; it  is  confiscated  to  the  State.  Tell  us,  sir,  what  is 
the  price  of  our  safet}'?  ” 

Schneider  smiled,  and  bowed  with  perfect  politeness. 
“Mademoiselle  Marie,”  he  said,  “is  perfectl}'  correct  in 
her  surmise.  I do  not  want  the  life  of  this  poor  drivelling  old 
man  : m3'  intentions  are  much  more  peaceable,  be  assured.  It 
rests  entirely  with  this  accomplished  young  lady  (whose  spirit 
I like,  and  whose  reacl3'  wit  I admire),  whether  the  business 
between  us  shall  be  a matter  of  love  or  death.  I humbl3^  offer 
m3'self,  citizen  Ancel,  as  a candidate  for  the  hand  of  3'our  charm- 
ing daughter.  Her  goodness,  her  beaut3',  and  the  large  fortune 
which  I know  3’ou  intend  to  give  her,  would  render  her  a desir- 
able match  for  the  proudest  man  in  the  republic,  and,  I am 
sure,  would  make  me  the  happiest.” 

“ This  must  be  a jest.  Monsieur  Schneider,”  said  Maiy, 
trembling,  and  turning  deadl3'  pale  : “ you  cannot  mean  this  ; 
3'ou  do  not  know  me  : 3'ou  never  heard  of  me  until  to-day.” 

“ Pardon  me,  belle  dame,”  replied  he  ; “ your  cousin  Pierre 
has  often  talked  to  me  of  3'Our  virtues  ; indeed,  it  was  by  his 
special  suggestion  that  I made  the  visit.” 

“It  is  false  ! — it  is  a base  and  cowardl3'  lie ! ” exclaimed 
she  (for  the  3*oung  lady’s  courage  was  up),  — “Pierre  never 
could  have  forgotten  himself  and  me  so  as  to  offer  me  to  one 
like  you.  You  come  here  with  a lie  on  your  lips  — a lie  against 
m3'  father,  to  swear  his  life  awa3',  against  m3'  dear  cousin’s 
honor  and  love.  It  is  useless  now  to  deny  it : father,  I love 
Pierre  Ancel ; I will  many  no  other  but  him no,  though  our 
last  penu3'  were  paid  to  this  man  as  the  price  of  our  freedom.” 
Schneider’s  011I3'  repl3'  to  this  was  a call  to  his  friend  Gre- 
goire. 

‘ ‘ Send  down  to  the  village  for  the  maire  and  some  gen- 
darmes ; and  tell  3'our  people  to  make  ready.” 

“ Shall  I put  the  machine  up?  ” shouted  he  of  the  sentimental 
turn. 

“ You  hear  him,”  said  Schneider  ; “ Marie  Ancel,  you  may 


THE  STORY  OF  ]MARY  AXCEL. 


135 


decide  the  fate  of  your  father.  I shall  return  in  a few  hours,” 
concluded  he,  “ and  will  then  beg  to  know  3’our  decision.” 

The  advocate  of  the  rights  of  man  then  left  the  apartment, 
and  left  the  famil}*,  as  you  may  imagine,  in  no  very  pleasant 
mood. 

Old  uncle  Jacob,  during  the  few  minutes  which  had  elapsed 
in  the  enactment  of  this  strange  scene,  sat  staring  wildly  at 
Schneider,  and  holding  Maiy  on  his  knees : the  poor  little 
thing  had  lied  to  him  for  protection,  and  not  to  her  father, 
who  was  kneeling  almost  senseless  at  the  window,  gazing  at 
the  executioner  and  his  hideous  preparations.  The  instinct  of 
the  poor  girl  had  not  failed  her;  she  knew  that  Jacob  was  her 
only  protector,  if  not  of  her  life  — heaven  bless  him  ! — of  her 
honor.  “Indeed,”  the  old  man  said,  in  a stout  voice,  “this 
must  never  be,  my  dearest  child  — you  must  not  many  this 
man.  If  it  be  the  will  of  Providence  that  we  fall,  we  shall 
have  at  least  the  thought  to  console  us  that  we  die  innocent. 
An}’  man  in  France  at  a time  like  this,  would  be  a coward  and 
traitor  if  he  feared  to  meet  the  fate  of  the  thousand  brave  and 
good  who  have  preceded  us.” 

“Who  speaks  of  dying?”  said  Edward.  “ Y"ou,  Brother 
Jacob?  — you  would  not  la}'  that  poor  girl’s  head  on  the  scaf- 
fold, or  mine,  your  dear  brother’s.  Y"ou  will  not  let  us  die, 
Mary ; you  will  not,  for  a small  sacrifice,  bring  your  poor  old 
father  into  danger  ? ” 

Mary  made  no  answer.  “Perhaps,  she  said,  “there  is 
time  for  escape : he  is  to  be  here  but  in  two  hours  ; in  two 
hours  we  may  be  safe,  in  concealment,  or  on  the  frontier.” 
And  she  rushed  to  the  door  of  the  chamber,  as  if  she  would 
have  instantly  made  the  attempt : two  gendarmes  were  at  the 
door.  “ We  have  orders,  Mademoiselle,”  they  said,  “ to  allow 
no  one  to  leave  this  apartment  until  the  return  of  the  citizen 
Schneider.” 

Alas  ! all  hope  of  escape  was  impossible.  Mary  became 
quite  silent  for  a while  ; she  would  not  speak  to  uncle  Jacob  ; 
and,  in  reply  to  her  father’s  eager  questions,  she  only  replied, 
coldly,  that  she  would  answer  Schneider  when  he  arrived. 

The  two  dreadful  hours  passed  avv’ay  only  too  quickly  ; and, 
punctual  to  his  appointment,  the  ex-monk  appeared.  Directly 
he  entered,  Mary  advanced  to  him,  and  said,  calmly,  — 

“ Sir,  I could  not  deceive  } ou  if  I said  that  I freely  accepted 
the  offer  which  you  have  made  me.  I will  be  your  wife  ; but  I 
tell  you  that  I love  another ; and  that  it  is  only  to  save  the 
lives  of  those  two  old  men  that  1 yield  my  person  up  to  you.” 


136 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Schneider  bowed,  and  said,  — 

“ It  is  bravely  spoken.  I like  your  candor  — your  beauty. 
As  for  the  love,  excuse  me  for  saying  that  is  a matter  of  total 
indifference.  I have  no  doubt,  however,  that  it  will  come  as 
soon  as  your  feelings  in  favor  of  the  young  gentleman,  3^our 
cousin,  have  lost  their  present  fervor.  That  engaging  3'oung 
man  has,  at  present,  another  mistress  — Glor3\  He  occupies, 
I believe,  the  distinguished  post  of  corporal  in  a regiment 
which  is  about  to  march  to  — Perpignan,  I believe.” 

It  was,  in  fact.  Monsieur  Schneider’s  polite  intention  to 
banish  me  as  far  as  possible  from  the  place  of  my  birth ; and 
he  had,  accordingly,  selected  the  Spanish  frontier  as  the  spot 
where  I was  to  display  my  future  military  talents. 

Mary  gave  no  answer  to  this  sneer : she  seemed  perfectly 
resigned  and  calm  : she  onty  said,  — 

“ I must  make,  however,  some  conditions  regarding  oui 
proposed  marriage,  which  a gentleman  of  Monsieur  Schneider’s 
gallantry  cannot  refuse.” 

“Pray  command  me,”  replied  the  husband  elect.  “Fair 
lad3",  you  know  I am  3^our  slave.” 

“ You  occupy  a distinguished  political  rank,  citizen  repre^ 
sentative,”  said  she;  “and  we  in  our  village  are  likewise 
known  and  beloved.  I should  be  ashamed,  I confess,  to  wed 
3"Ou  here  ; for  our  people  would  wonder  at  the  sudden  marriage, 
and  impl3"  that  it  was  onty  by  compulsion  that  I gave  3'ou  my 
hand.  Let  us,  then,  perform  this  ceremony  at  Strasburg, 
before  the  public  authorities  of  the  cit3^  with  the  state  and 
solemnit3^  which  befits  the  marriage  of  one  of  the  chief  men 
of  the  Republic.” 

“Be  it  so,  madam,”  he  answered,  and  gallantly  proceeded  to 
embrace  his  bride. 

Mary  did  not  shrink  from  this  ruffian’s  kiss  ; nor  did  she 
repl3"  when  poor  old  Jacob,  who  sat  sobbing  in  a corner,  burst 
out,  and  said,  — 

“ O Maiy,  Mary,  I did  not  think  this  of  thee  ! ” 

“ Silence,  brother  ! ” hastily  said  Edward  ; “ ny^  good  son- 
in-law  will  pardon  3’our  ill-humor.” 

I believe  uncle  Edward  in  his  heart  was  pleased  at  the  no- 
tion of  the  marriage ; he  only^  cared  for  money  and  rank,  and 
was  little  scrupulous  as  to  the  means  of  obtaining  them. 

The  matter  then  was  finall3^  arranged  ; and  presentl3’,  after 
Schneider  had  transacted  the  affairs  which  brought  him  into 
that  part  of  the  countiy,  the  happ3"  bridal  part3"  set  forward  for 
Strasburg.  Uncles  Jacob  and  Edward  occupied  the  back  sea^ 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL. 


137 


of  the  old  family  carriage,  and  the  young  bride  and  bridegroom 
(he  was  nearl}^  Jacob’s  age)  were  seated  majestically  in  front. 
Mary  has  often  since  talked  to  me  of  this  dreadful  journey. 
She  said  she* wondered  at  the  scrupulous  politeness  of  Schneider 
during  the  route  ; nay,  that  at  another  period  she  could  have 
listened  to  and  admired  the  singular  talent  of  this  man,  his 
great  learning,  his  fancy,  and  wit ; but  her  mind  was  bent 
upon  other  things,  and  the  poor  girl  firmly  thought  that  her 
last  day  was  come. 

In  the  meantime,  b}'  a blessed  chance,  I had  not  ridden 
three  leagues  fi’om  Strasburg,  when  the  officer  of  a passing 
troop  of  a cavalry  regiment,  looking  at  the  beast  on  which  I 
was  mounted,  was  pleased  to  take  a fancy  to  it,  and  ordered 
me,  in  an  authoritative  tone,  to  descend,  and  to  give  up  my 
steed  for  the  benefit  of  the  Republic.  I represented  to  him, 
in  vain,  that  I was  a soldier,  like  himself,  and  the  bearer  of 
despatches  to  Paris.  “Fool!”  he  said;  “do  3’ou  think  the^' 
would  send  despatches  bj^  a man  who  can  ride  at  best  but  ten 
leagues  a da^^?”  And  the  honest  soldier  was  so  wroth  at  my 
supposed  duplicit}",  that  he  not  only  confiscated  my  horse,  but 
my  saddle,  and  the  little  portmanteau  which  contained  the  chief 
part  of  m}^  worldlj*  goods  and  treasure.  I had  nothing  for  it 
but  to  dismount,  and  take  1113^  wa3"  on  foot  back  again  to  Stras- 
burg. I arrived  there  in  the  evening,  determining  the  next 
morning  to  make  m3"  case  known  to  the  citizen  St.  Just ; and 
though  I made  my  entry  without  a sou,  I don’t  know  what 
secret  exultation  I felt  at  again  being  able  to  return. 

The  ante-chamber  of  such  a great  man  as  St.  Just  was,  in 
those  days,  too  crowded  for  an  unprotected  boy  to  obtain  an 
early  audience  ; two  days  passed  before  I could  obtain  a sight 
of  the  friend  of  Robespierre.  On  the  third  day,  as  I was  still 
waiting  for  the  interview,  I heard  a great  bustle  in  the  court- 
3'ard  of  the  house,  and  looked  out  with  many  others  at  the 
spectacle. 

A number  of  men  and  women,  singing  epithalamiums,  and 
dressed  in  some  absurd  imitation  of  Roman  costume,  a troop 
of  soldiers  and  gendarmerie,  and  an  immense  crowd  of  the 
hadaiids  of  Strasburg,  were  surrounding  a carriage  which  then 
entered  the  court  of  the  mayoralty.  In  this  carriage,  great 
God ! I saw  my  dear  Mary,  and  Schneider  by  her  side.  The 
truth  instantly  came  upon  me : the  reason  for  Schneider’s  keen 
inquiries  and  my  abrupt  dismissal ; but  I could  not  believe 
that  Mary  was  false  to  me.  T had  onlv  to  look  in  her  face, 


138 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


white  and  rigid  as  marble,  to  see  that  this  proposed  marriage 
was  not  with  her  consent. 

I fell  back  in  the  crowd  as  the  procession  entered  the  great 
room  in  which  I was,  and  hid  my  face  in  m3"  hands  : I could 
not  look  upon  iier  as  the  wife  of  another,  — upon  her  so  long 
loved  and  truly  — the  saint  of  m3"-  childhood  — the  pride  and 
hope  of  m3"  3"onth  — torn  from  me  for  ever,  and  delivered  over 
to  the  unhol3"  arms  of  the  murderer  who  stood  before  me. 

The  door  of  St.  Just’s  private  apartment  opened,  and  he 
took  his  seat  at  the  table  of  ma3"oralt3"  just  as  Schneider  and 
his  cortege  arrived  before  it. 

Schneider  then  said  that  he  came  in  before  the  authorities 
of  the  Republic  to  espouse  the  citoyenne  Marie  Ancel. 

“ Is  she  a minor?”  asked  St.  Just. 

“ She  is  a minor,  but  her  father  is  here  to  give  her  awa3".” 

“I  am  here,”  said  uncle  Edward,  coming  eagerty  forward 
and  bowing.  “ Edward  Ancel,  so  please  you,  citizen  repre- 
sentative. The  worthy  citizen  Schneider  has  done  me  the 
honor  of  marrying  into  m3^  famih".” 

“ But  my  father  has  not  told  you  the  terms  of  the  marriage,” 
said  Maiy,  interrupting  him,  in  a loud,  clear  voice. 

Here  Schneider  seized  her  hand,  and  endeavored  to  prevent 
her  from  speaking.  Her  father  turned  pale,  and  cried,  “ Stop, 
Mary,  stop ! P"or  heaven’s  sake,  remember  your  poor  old 
father’s  danger ! ” 

“ Sir,  may  I speak?” 

“ Let  the  young  woman  speak,”  said  St.  Just,  “ if  she  have 
a desire  to  talk.”  He  did  not  suspect  what  would  be  the  pur- 
port of  her  story. 

“Sir,”  she  said,  “two  days  since  the  citizen  Schneider 
entered  for  the  first  time  our  house  ; and  3"ou  will  fancy  that  it 
must  be  a love  of  very  sudden  growth  which  has  brought  either 
him  or  me  before  you  to-day.  He  had  heard  from  a person  who 
is  now  unhappily  not  present,  of  my  name  and  of  the  wealth 
which  m3"  family  was  said  to  possess  ; and  hence  arose  this  mad 
design  concerning  me.  He  came  into  our  village  with  supreme 
power,  an  executioner  at  his  heels,  and  the  soldiery  and  author- 
ities of  the  district  entirel3"  under  his  orders.  He  threatened 
my  father  with  death  if  he  refused  to  give  up  his  daughter  ; and 
I,  who  knew  that  there  was  no  chance  of  escape,  except  here 
before  3"Ou,  consented  to  become  his  wife.  M3"  father  I know 
to  be  innocent,  for  all  his  transactions  with  the  State  have 
passed  through  my  hands.  Citizen  representative,  I demand 
to  be  freed  from  this  marriage  ; and  I charge  Schneider  as  a 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANGEL. 


139 


traitor  to  the  Republic,  as  a man  who  would  have  murdered 
an  innocent  citizen  for  the  sake  of  private  gain.” 

During  the  deliveiy  of  this  little  speech,  uncle  Jacob  had 
been  sobbing  and  panting  like  a broken-winded  horse  ; and 
when  Mary  had  done,  he  rushed  up  to  her  and  kissed  her,  and 
held  her  tight  in  his  arms.  “ Bless  thee,  my  child  ! ” he  cried, 
“ for  having  had  the  courage  to  speak  the  truth,  and  shame  thy 
old  fatlier  and  me,  who  dared  not  say  a word.” 

“The  girl  amazes  me,”  said  Schneider,  with  a look  of 
astonishment.  “ I never  saw  her,  it  is  true,  till  yesterday  ; but 
I used  no  force  : her  father  gave  her  to  me  with  his  free  con- 
sent, and  she  yielded  as  gladly.  Speak,  Edward  Ancel,  was 
it  not  so  ? ” 

“ It  was,  indeed,  by  my  free  consent,”  said  Edward,  trem- 
bling. 

“For  shame,  brother  ! ” cried  old  Jacob.  “ Sir,  it  was  b}^ 
Edward’s  free  consent  and  1113^  niece’s  ; but  the  guillotine  was 
in  the  court-yard ! Question  Schneider’s  famulus,  the  man 
Gregoire,  him  who  reads  ‘ The  Sorrows  of  Werter.’” 

Gregoire  stepped  forward,  and  looked  hesitating!}-  at 
Schneider,  as  he  said,  “ I know  not  what  took  place  within 
doors ; but  I was  ordered  to  put  up  the  scaffold  without  ; 
and  I was  told  to  get  soldiers,  and  let  no  one  leave  the 
house.” 

“Citizen  St.  Just,”  cried  Schneider,  “you  will  not  allow 
the  testimon}-  of  a ruffian  like  this,  of  a foolish  girl,  and  a mad 
ex-priest,  to  w-eigh  against  the  word  of  one  who  has  done  such 
service  to  the  Republic  : it  is  a base  conspiracy  to  betra}-  me  ; 
the  whole  family  is  known  to  favor  the  interest  of  the  emigres.'' 

“ And  therefore  3-ou  would  many  a member  of  the  famil}-, 
and  allow  the  others  to  escape  ; you  must  make  a better  defence, 
citizen  Schneider,”  said  St.  Just,  sternl}-. 

Here  I came  forward,  and  said  that,  three  days  since,  I had 
received  an  order  to  quit  Strasburg  for  Paris  immediately  after 
a conversation  with  Schneider,  in  which  I had  asked  him  his  aid 
in  promoting  my  marriage  with  m3-  cousin,  Mary  Ancel ; that 
he  had  heard  from  me  full  accounts  regarding  her  father’s 
wealth  ; and  that  he  had  abruptly  caused  1113-  dismissal,  in  order 
to  cany  on  his  scheme  against  her. 

“ You  are  in  the  uniform  of  a regiment  of  this  town  ; who 
sent  3-0U  from  it?”  said  St.  Just. 

I produced  the  order,  signed  by  himself,  and  the  despatches 
W'hich  Schneider  had  sent  me. 

“ The  signature  is  mine,  but  the  despatches  did  not  come 


140 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


from  my  office.  Can  you  prove  in  any  way  your  conversation 
with  Schneider?” 

“ Why,”  said  my  sentimental  friend  Gregoire,  “ for  the 
matter  of  that,  I can  answer  that  the  lad  was  always  talking 
about  this  .young  woman  : he  told  me  the  whole  story  himself, 
and  many  a good  laugh  I had  with  citizen  Schneider  as  we 
talked  about  it.” 

“ The  charge  against  Edward  Ancel  must  be  examined  into,” 
said  St.  Just.  “The  marriage  cannot  take  place.  But  if  I 
had  ratified  it,  Mary  Ancel,  what  then  would  have  been  your 
course  ? ” 

Mary  felt  for  a moment  in  her  bosom,  and  said  — “ 
would  have  died  to-night  — I would  have  stabbed  him  with  this 
dagger y * 

The  rain  was  beating  down  the  streets,  and  yet  they  were 
thronged ; all  the  world  was  hastening  to  the  market-place, 
where  the  worthy  Gregoire  was  about  to  perform  some  of  the 
pleasant  duties  of  his  office.  On  this  occasion,  it  was  not  death 
that  he  was  to  inflict ; he  was  only  to  expose  a criminal  who 
was  to  be  sent  on  afterwards  to  Paris.  St.  Just  had  ordered 
that  Schneider  should  stand  for  six  hours  in  the  public  place  of 
Strasburg,  and  then  be  sent  on  to  the  capital  to  be  dealt  with 
as  the  authorities  might  think  fit. 

The  people  followed  with  execrations  the  villain  to  his  place 
of  punishment ; and  Gregoire  grinned  as  he  fixed  up  to  the  post 
the  man  whose  orders  he  had  obe}"ed  so  often  — who  had  de- 
livered over  to  disgrace  and  punishment  so  many  who  merited 
it  not. 

Schneider  was  left  for  several  hours  exposed  to  the  mockery 
and  insults  of  the  mob  ; he  was  then,  according  to  his  sentence, 
marched  on  to  Paris,  where  it  is  probable  that  he  would  have 
escaped  death,  but  for  his  own  fault.  He  was  left  for  some 
time  in  prison,  quite  unnoticed,  perhaps  forgotten : day  b}^  day 
fresh  victims  were  carried  to  the  scaffold,  and  }"et  the  Alsacian 
tribune  remained  alive ; at  last,  by  the  mediation  of  one  of  his 
friends,  a long  petition  was  presented  to  Robespierre,  stating 
his  services  and  his  innocence,  and  demanding  his  freedom. 
The  reply  to  this  was  an  order  for  his  instant  execution : the 
wretch  died  in  the  last  days  of  Robespierre’s  reign.  His  com- 
rade, St.  Just,  followed  him,  as  you  know ; but  Edward  Ancel 

* This  reply,  and,  indeed,  the  whole  of  the  story,  is  historical.  An 
account,  by  Charles  Nodier,  in  the  Reime  Paris,  suggested  it  to  the 
writer. 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANGEL. 


141 


had  been  released  before  this,  for  the  action  of  my  brave  Mary 
liad  created  a strong  feeling  in  his  favor. 

‘ ‘ And  Mary  ? ” said  I. 

Here  a stout  and  smiling  old  lad}"  entered  the  Captain’s  little 
room  ; she  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a militaiy-looking  man 
of  some  forty  years,  and  followed  by  a number  of  noisy,  ros}" 
children. 

This  is  Mary  Ancel,”  said  the  Captain,  “ and  I am  Cap- 
tain Pierre,  and  yonder  is  the  Colonel,  my  son  ; and  you  see  us 
here  assembled  in  force,  for  it  is  the  fete  of  little  Jacob  yonder, 
whose  brothers  and  sisters  have  all  come  from  their  schools  to 
dance  at  his  birthday.” 


BEATRICE  MERGER. 


Beatrice  Merger,  whose  name  might  figure  at  the  head  of 
one  of  Mr.  Colburn’s  politest  romances  — so  smooth  and  aris- 
tocratic does  it-  sound  — is  no  heroine,  except  of  her  own 
simple  history ; she  is  not  a fashionable  French  Countess,  nor 
even  a victim  of  the  Revolution. 

She  is  a stout,  sturd}^  girl  of  two-and-twenty,  with  a face 
beaming  with  good  nature,  and  marked  dreadfully  by  small- 
pox ; and  a pair  of  black  eyes,  which  might  have  done  some 
execution  had  they  been  placed  in  a smoother  face.  Beatrice’s 
station  in  society  is  not  very  exalted  ; she  is  a servant  of  all- 
work : she  will  dress  }^our  wife,  your  dinner,  your  children  ; she 
does  beefsteaks  and  plain  work  ; she  makes  beds,  blacks  boots, 
and  waits  at  table  ; — such,  at  least,  were  the  offices  which  she 
performed  in  the  fashionable  establishment  of  the  writer  of  this 
book  : perhaps  her  history  may  not  inaptly  occupy  a few  pages 
of  it. 

“My  father  died,”  said  Beatrice,  “about  six  years  since, 
and  left  my  poor  mother  with  little  else  but  a small  cottage  and 
a strip  of  land,  and  four  children  too  }^oung  to  work.  It  was 
hard  enough  in  my  father’s  time  to  supply  so  many  little  raoiiths 
with  food  ; and  how  was  a poor  widowed  woman  to  provide  for 
them  now,  who  had  neither  the  strength  nor  the  opportunity  for 
labor  ? 

“Besides  us,  to  be  sure,  there  was  my  old  aunt;  and  she 
would  have  helped  us,  but  she  could  not,  for  the  old  woman  is 
bed-ridden  ; so  she  did  nothing  but  occupy  our  best  room,  and 
grumble  from  morning  till  night : heaven  know’S,  poor  old  soul, 
that  she  had  no  great  reason  to  be  veiy  happy  ; for  you  know, 


BEATRICE  MERGER. 


143 


sir,  that  it  frets  the  temper  to  be  sick  ; and  that  it  is  worse  still 
to  be  sick  and  himgiy  too. 

“ At  that  time,  in  the  country  where  we  lived  (in  Picardy, 
not  very  far  from  Boulogne),  times  were  so  bad  that  the 
best  workman  could  hardl}^  find  emplo}^ ; and  when  he  did,  he 
was  happy  if  he  could  earn  a matter  of  twelve  sons  a day. 
Mother,  work  as  she  would,  could  not  gain  more  than  six ; and 
it  was  a hard  job,  out  of  this,  to  put  meat  into  six  bellies,  and 
clothing  on  six  backs.  Old  Aunt  Bridget  would  scold,  as  she 
got  her  portion  of  black  bread  ; and  m3’  little  brothers  used  to 
ciy  if  theirs  did  not  come  in  time.  I,  too,  used  to  cry  when  I 
got  iny  share  ; for  mother  kept  011I3’  a little,  little  piece  for  her- 
self, and  said  that  she  had  dined  in  the  fields,  — God  pardon 
her  for  the  lie ! and  bless  her,  as  I am  sure  He  did  ; for,  but 
for  Him,  no  working  man  or  woman  could  subsist  upon  such  a 
wretched  morsel  as  m3"  dear  mother  took. 

“ I was  a thin,  ragged,  barefooted  girl,  then,  and  sickty  and 
weak  for  want  of  food ; but  I think  I felt  mother’s  hunger  more 
than  m3"  own  : and  many  and  mau3"  a bitter  night  I la3’  awake, 
crying,  and  praying  to  God  to  give  me  means  of  working  for 
myself  and  aiding  her.  And  he  has,  indeed,  been  good  to  me,” 
said  pious  Beatrice,  “ for  He  has  given  me  all  this  ! 

“ Well,  time  rolled  on,  and  matters  grew  worse  than  ever : 
winter  came,  and  was  colder  to  us  than  aiy’  other  winter,  for 
our  clothes  were  thinner  and  more  torn  ; mother  sometimes 
could  find  no  work,  for  the  fields  in  which  she  labored  were 
hidden  under  the  snow  ; so  that  when  we  wanted  them  most  we 
had  them  least  — warmth,  work,  or  food, 

“ I knew  that,  do  what  I would,  mother  would  never  let  me 
leave  her,  because  T looked  to  my  little  brothers  and  my  old 
cripple  of  an  aunt ; but  still,  bread  was  better  for  us  than  all  my 
service  ; and  when  I left  them  the  six  would  have  a slice  more  ; 
so  I determined  to  bid  good-by  to  nobody,  but  to  go  away,  and 
look  for  work  elsewhere.  One  Sunda3",  when  mother  and  the 
little  ones  were  at  church,  I went  in  to  Aunt  Bridget,  and  said, 
‘ Tell  mother,  when  she  comes  back,  that  Beatrice  is  gone.’ 
I spoke  quite  stoutly,  as  if  I did  not  care  about  it. 

“ ‘ Gone  ! gone  where  ? ’ said  she.  ‘ You  ain’t  going  to  leave 
me  alone,  you  nasty  thing ; 3’ou  ain’t  going  to  the  village  to 
dance,  you  ragged,  barefooted  slut : you’re  all  of  a piece  in 
this  house  — your  mother,  3’our  brothers,  and  you.  I know 
vou’ve  got  meat  in  the  kitchen,  and  you  only  give  me  black 
bread  ; ’ and  here  the  old  lad3"  l)egan  to  scream  as  if  her  heart 
would  break  ; but  we  did  not  mind  it,  we  were  so  used  to  it. 


144 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


“ ‘ Aunt,’  said  I,  ‘ I’m  going,  and  took  this  very  opportunity 
because  3*011  were  alone  : tell  mother  I am  too  old  now  to  eat 
her  bread,  and  do  no  work  for  it : I am  going,  please  God, 
where  work  and  bread  can  be  found  : ’ and  so  I kissed  her : she 
was  so  astonished  that  she  could  not  move  or  speak ; and  I 
walked  away  through  the  old  room,  and  the  little  garden,  God 
knows  whither ! 

“ I heal'd  the  old  woman  screaming  after  me,  but  I did  not 
stop  nor  turn  round.  I don’t  think  I could,  for  m3"  heart  was 
veiy  full ; and  if  I had  gone  back  again,  1 should  never  have 
had  the  courage  to  go  away.  So  1 walked  a long,  long  wa3", 
until  night  fell ; and  I thought  of  poor  mother  coming  home 
from  mass,  and  not  finding  me  ; and  little  Pierre  shouting  out, 
in  his  clear  voice,  for  Beatrice  to  bring  him  his  supper.  I think 
I should  like  to  have  died  that  night,  and  I thought  I should 
too ; for  when  I was  obliged  to  throw  m3"self  on  the  cold, 
hard  ground,  my*  feet  were  too  torn  and  weaiy  to  bear  me  any" 
further. 

“Just  then  the  moon  got  up;  and  do  y*ou  know  I felt  a 
comfort  in  looking  at  it,  for  I knew  it  was  shining  on  our  little 
cottage,  and  it  seemed  like  an  old  friend’s  face?  A little  way" 
on,  as  I saw  by  the  moon,  was  a village  : and  I saw,  too,  that 
a man  was  coming  towards  me  ; he  must  have  heard  me  crying, 
I suppose. 

“Was  not  God  good  to  me?  This*  man  was  a farmer,  who 
had  need  of  a girl  in  his  house  ; he  made  me  tell  him  why  I was 
alone,  and  I told  him  the  same  story  I have  told  y*ou,  and  he 
believed  me  and  took  me  home.  I had  walked  six  long  leagues 
from  our  village  that  day*,  asking  everywhere  for  work  in  vain  ; 
and  here,  at  bedtime,  I found  a bed  and  a supper ! 

“ Here  I lived  very  well  for  some  months  ; my  master  was 
very  good  and  kind  to  me  ; but,  unluckily",  too  poor  to  give  me 
any  wages  ; so  that  I could  save  nothing  to  send  to  my  poor 
mother.  My"  mistress  used  to  scold  ; but  I was  used  to  that  at 
home,  from  Aunt  Bridget : and  she  beat  me  sometimes,  but  I 
did  not  mind  it ; for  your  hardy*  country*  girl  is  not  like  y*our 
tender  town  lasses,  who  cry  if  a pin  pricks  them,  and  give 
warning  to  their  mistresses  at  the  first  hard  word.  The  only* 
drawback  to  my*  comfort  was,  that  I had  no  news  of  my  mother ; 
I could  not  write  to  her,  nor  could  she  have  read  my"  letter,  if 
I had  ; so  there  I was,  at  only  six  leagues’  distance  from  home, 
as  far  off  as  if  I had  been  to  Paris  or  to  ’Merica. 

“ However,  in  a few  months  I grew  so  listless  and  homesick, 
that  my  mistress  said  she  v/^ld  keep  me  no  longer ; and  though 


BEATRICE  MERGER. 


145 


T went  away  as  poor  as  I came,  I was  still  too  glad  to  go  back 
lo  the  old  village  again,  and  see  dear  mother,  if  it  were  but  for 
a da}\  I knew  she  would  share  her  crust  with  me,  as  she  had 
done  for  so  long  a time  before  ; and  hoped  that,  now,  as  I was 
taller  and  stronger,  1 might  find  work  more  easily  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

“ A^ou  may  fancy  what  a fete  it  was  when  I came  back; 
though  I’m  sure  we  cried  as  much  as  if  it  had  been  a funeral. 
Mother  got  into  a fit,  whicli  frightened  us  all ; aud  as  for  Aunt 
Bridget,  she  skreeled  away  for  hours  together,  and  did  not  scold 
for  two  days  at  least.  Little  Pierre  offered  me  the  whole  of  his 
supper ; poor  little  man  ! his  slice  of  bread  was  no  bigger  than 
before  I went  away. 

Well,  1 got  a little  work  here  and  a little  there;  but  still 
I was  a burden  at  home  rather  than  a bread-winner ; and,  at 
the  closing-in  of  the  winter,  was  very  glad  to  hear  of  a place 
at  two  leagues’  distance,  where  work,  they  said,  was  to  be  had. 
Ort‘  I set,  one  morning,  to  find  it,  but  missed  mj’  way,  somehow, 
until  it  was  night-time  before  I arrived.  Night-time  and  snow 
again  ; it  seemed  as  if  all  my  journeys  were  to  be  made  in  this 
bitter  weather. 

“ When  I came  to  the  farmer’s  door,  his  house  was  shut  up, 
and  his  people  all  a-bed  ; -I  knocked  for  a long  while  in  vain  ; 
at  last  he  made  his  appearaiTce  at  a window  ui)  stairs,  and  seemed 
so  frightened,  and  looked  so  angry  that  1 suppose  he  took  me 
for  a thief.  I told  him  how  I had  come  for  work.  ‘ Who  comes 
for  work  at  such  an  hour?  ’ said  he.  ‘ Go  home,  you  impudent 
baggage,  and  do  not  disturb  honest  people  out  of  their  sleep.’ 
He  banged  the  window  to ; and  so  I was  left  alone  to  shift  for 
m3'self  as  I might.  There  was  no  shed,  no  cow-house,  where  I 
could  find  a bed  ; so  I got  under  a cart,  on  some  straw  ; it  was 
no  veiy  warm  berth.  I could  not  sleep  for  the  cold:  and 
the  hours  passed  so  slowl}",  that  it  seemed  as  if  I had  been 
there  a week  instead  of  a night ; but  still  it  was  not  so  bad 
as  the  first  night  when  I left  home,  and  when  the  good  farmer 
found  me. 

“In  the  morning,  before  it  was  light,  the  farmer’s  people 
came  out,  and  saw  me  crouching  under  the  cart : they  told  me 
to  get  up  ; but  I was  so  cold  that  I could  not : at  last  the  man 
himself  came,  and  recognized  me  as  the  girl  who  had  disturbed 
him  the  night  before.  When  he  heard  my  name,  and  the  pur- 
pose for  which  I came,  this  good  man  took  me  into  the  house, 
and  put  me  into  one  of  the  beds  out  of  which  his  sons  had  just 
got ; and,  if  I was  cold  before,  you  may  be  sure  I was  w _,rm  and 


146 


Till:  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


comforUible  now  ! such  ii  l)ed  as  this  I had  never  slept  in,  nor 
ever  did  I have  such  good  milk-soup  as  he  gave  me  out  of  his 
own  breakfast.  Well,  he  agreed  to  hire  me  ; and  what  do  3 011 
think  he  gave  me  ? — six  sous  a da}" ! and  let  me  sleep  in  the 
cow-house  besides  : you  ma}"  fanc}"  how  happ}"  I was  now,  at  the 
prospect  of  earning  so  much  mone}". 

“ There  was  an  old  woman  among  the  laborers  who  used  to 
sell  us  soup  : I got  a cupful  every  da}"  for  a half-penny,  with  a 
bit  of  bread  in  it ; and  might  eat  as  much  beet-root  besides  as 
I liked ; not  a very  wholesome  meal,  to  be  sure,  but  God  took 
care  that  it  should  not  disagree  with  me. 

“ So,  every  Saturday,  when  work  was  over,  I had  thirty 
sous  to  carry  home  to  motlier ; and  tired  though  I was,  I 
walked  merrily  the  two  leagues  to  our  village,  to  see  her  again. 
On  the  road  there  was  a great  wood  to  pass  through,  and  this 
frightened  me  ; for  if  a thief  should  come  and  rob  me  of  my 
whole  week’s  earnings,  what  could  a poor  lone  girl  do  to  help 
herself?  But  I found  a remedy  for  this  too,  and  no  thieves 
ever  came  near  me  ; I used  to  begin  saying  my  prayers  as  I 
entered  the  forest,  and  never  stopped  until  I was  safe  at  home ; 
and  safe  I always  ari'ived,  with  my  thirty  sous  in  my  pocket. 
Ah  ! you  may  be  sure,  Sunday  was  a merry  day  for  us  all.” 

This  is  the  whole  of  Beatrice’s  history  which  is  worthy  of 
publication  ; the  rest  of  it  only  relates  to  her  arrival  in  Paris, 
and  the  various  masters  and  mistresses  whom  she  there  had  the 
honor  to  serve.  As  soon  as  she  enters  the  capital  the  romance 
disappears,  and  the  poor  girl’s  sufferings  and  privations  luckily 
vanish  with  it.  Beatrice  has  got  now  warm  gowns,  and  stout 
shoes,  and  plenty  of  good  food.  She  has  had  her  little  brother 
from  Picardy ; clothed,  fed,  and  educated  him  : that  young 
gentleman  is  now  a carpenter,  and  an  honor  to  his  profession. 
IMadame  Merger  is  in  easy  circumstances,  and  receives,  yearly, 
fifty  francs  from  her  daughter.  To  crown  all,  Alademoiselle 
Beatrice  herself  is  a funded  proprietor,  and  consulted  the  writer 
of  this  biography  as  to  the  best  method  of  laying  out  a capital 
of  two  hundred  francs,  which  is  the  present  amount  of  her  for- 
tune. 

God  bless  her ! she  is  richer  than  his  Grace  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire  ; and,  I dare  say,  has,  in  her  humble  walk,  been 
more  virtuous  and  more  happy  than  all  the  dukes  in  the  realm. 

It  is,  indeed,  for  the  benefit  of  dukes  and  such  great  peo- 
ple (who,  I make  no  doubt,  have  long  since  ordered  copies  of 
these  Sketches),  that  poor  little  Beatrice’s  story  has  been  in- 


..  BEATRICE  MERGER. 


147 


dited.  Certain  it  is,  that  the  young  woman  would  never  have 
been  immortalized  in  this  way,  but  for  the  good  which  her  bet- 
ters may  derive  from  her  example.  If  vour  ladyship  will  but 
reflect  a little,  after  boasting  of  the  sums  which  3'ou  spend  in 
chariU' ; the  beef  and  blankets  whicli  von  dole  out  at  Christ- 
mas ; tlie  poonah-painting  which  \’ou  exc'cute  for  fanc}’  fairs  ; 
the  long,  long  sermons  whicli  vou  listen  to  at  St.  George’s, 
the  whole  year  through  ; — 3'our  ladvshi[),  I sav,  will  allow  that, 
although  perfectlv  meritorious  in  \ oiir  line,  as  a patroness  of 
the  Church  of  England,  of  Almack’s,  and  of  the  Lying-in  As}'- 
lum,  3’ours  is  but  a paltrv  sphere  of  virtue,  a pitiful  attempt 
at  benevolence,  and  that  this  honest  servant-girl  puts  3^011  to 
shame!  And  3'ou,  iiyy  Lord  Bishop;  do  3011,  out  of  3'our  six 
sous  a da3',  give  awa3'  five  to  su[)})ort  your  Hock  and  famil3’? 
Would  you  dro[)  a single  coach-horse  (I  do  not  say,  a dinner, 
for  such  a notion  is  monstrous,  in  one  of  your  lordship’s  degree), 
to  feed  any  one  of  the  starving  children  of  your  lordship’s 
mother  — the  Church  ? 

I pause  for  a re[)l3\  Ills  lordship  took  too  much  turtle  and 
cold  punch  for  dinner  3^sterda3',  and  cannot  speak  just  now  : 
but  we  have,  by  this  ingenious  question,  silenced  him  altogether  : 
let  the  world  wag  as  it  will,  and  poor  Christians  and  curates 
starve  as  thc3’  nia3',  my  lord’s  footmen  must  have  their  new 
liveries,  and  his  horses  their  four  feeds  a da3'. 

When  we  recollect  his  speech  about  the  Catholics  — when 
we  remember  his  last  charit3'  sermon,  — but  I say  nothing. 
Here  is  a poor  benighted  superstitious  creature,  worshipping 
images,  without  a rag  to  her  tail,  who  has  as  much  faith,  and 
liumilit3’,  and  charit3’  as  all  the  reverend  bench. 

This  angel  is  without  a place  ; and  for  this  reason  (besides 
the  pleasure  of  composing  the  above  slap  at  episcopac3^)  — I 
have  indited  her  histoiy.  If  the  Bishop  is  going  to  Paris,  and 
■wants  a good  honest  maid-of-all-work,  he  can  have  her,  I have 
no  doubt ; or  if  he  chooses  to  give  a few  pounds  to  her  mother, 
the3^  can  be  sent  to  Mr.  Titmarsh,  at  the  publisher’s. 

Here  is  IMiss  Merger’s  last  letter  and  autograph.  The  note 
was  evidentl3^  composed  b3^  an  Ecrivain  public : — 

'‘^Madame,  — Ayant  aprispar  ce  Monsieur,  que  vous  vans portiez 
hien,  ainsi  que  Monsieur,  ayant  su  aussi  que  vous  parliez  de  moi  dans 
votre  lettre  cette  nouvelle  m' a fait  hien  plaisir  Je  profite  de  V occa- 
sion pour  vous  faire  passer  ce  petit  billet  ou  Je  voudrais  pouvoif 


148 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


rrC envelo'per  pour  alter  vous  voir  et  pour  vous  dire  que  Je  suis  en- 
core sans  place  Je  miennuye  tojours  de  ne  pas  vous  voir  ainsi  que 
Minette  {Minette  is  a cat)  qui  semble  wHinterroger  tour  a tour  et 
demander  ou  vous  etes.  Je  vous  envoy e aussi  la  note  du  linge  a 
Uanchir  — ah^  Madame!  Jevais  cesser  de  vous  ecrire  mais  non  de 
vous  regretter^ 


CARICATURES  AND  LITHOGRAPHY  IN 
PARIS. 


Fifty  years  ago  there  lived  at  Munich  a poor  fellow,  bj 
name  Aloys  Senefelder,  who  was  in  so  little  repute  as  an  author 
and  artist,  that  printers  and  engravers  refused  to  publish  his 
works  at  their  own  charges,  and  so  set  him  upon  some  plan  for 
doing  vvitliout  their  aid.  In  the  first  place,  Aloys  invented  a 
certain  kind  of  ink,  which  would  resist  the  action  of  the  acid 
that  is  usuall}'  employed  by  engravers,  and  with  this  he  made 
his  experiments  upon  copper-plates,  as  long  as  he  could  afford 
to  purchase  them.  He  found  that  to  write  upon  the  plates 
backwards,  after  the  manner  of  engravers,  required  much  skill 
and  many  trials  ; and  he  thought  that,  were  he  to  practise  upon 
an}"  other  polished  surface  — a smooth  stone,  for  instance,  the 
least  costly  article  imaginable  — he  might  spare  the  expense  of 
the  copper  until  he  had  sufficient  skill  to  use  it. 

One  day,  it  is  said,  that  Aloys  was  called  upon  to  write  — 
rather  a humble  composition  for  an  author  and  artist  — a wash- 
ing-bill. He  had  no  paper  at  hand,  and  so  he  wrote  out  the 
bill  w"ith  some  of  his  newl}"-invented  ink  upon  one  of  his  Kel- 
heim  stones.  Some  time  afterwards  he  thought  he  would  tr}^ 
and  take  an  impression  of  his  washing-bill : he  did,  and  suc- 
ceeded. Such  is  the  stoiy,  which  the  reader  most  likely  knows 
veiy  well ; and  having  alluded  to  the  origin  of  the  art,  we  shall 
not  follow  the  stream  through  its  windings  and  enlargement 
after  it  issued  from  the  little  parent  rock,  or  fill  our  pages  with 
the  rest  of  the  pedigree.  Senefelder  invented  Lithography. 
His  invention  has  not  made  so  much  noise  and  larum  in  the 
world  as  some  others,  which  have  an  origin  quite  as  humble 
and  unromantic  ; but  it  is  one  to  which  we  owe  no  small  profit, 
and  a great  deal  of  pleasu'-'^  • and.  as  such,  we  are  bound  to 


150 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


speak  of  it  with  all  gratitude  and  respect.  The  schoolmaster, 
who  is  now  abroad,  has  taught  us,  in  our  3"outh,  how  the  culti- 
vation of  art  “ emollit  mores  nec  sinit  esse”  — (it  is  needless  to 
finish  the  quotation)  ; and  Lithograph}"  has  been,  to  our  think- 
ing, the  very  best  ally  that  art  ever  had  ; the  best  friend  of  the 
artist,  allowing  him  to  produce  rapidly  multiplied  and  authentic 
copies  of  his  own  works  (without  trusting  to  the  tedious  and 
expensive  assistance  of  the  engraver)  ; and  the  best  friend  to 
the  people  likewise,  who  have  means  of  purchasing  these  cheap 
and  beautiful  productions,  and  thus  having  their  ideas  “ molli- 
fied” and  their  manners  “ feros”  no  more. 

With  ourselves,  among  whom  money  is  plenty,  enterprise 
so  great,  and  everything  matter  of  commercial  speculation. 
Lithography  has  not  been  so  much  practised  as  wood  or  steel 
engraving ; which,  by  the  aid  of  great  original  capital  and 
spread  of  sale,  are  able  more  than  to  compete  with  the  art  of 
drawing  on  stone.  The  two  former  may  be  called  art  done  by 
machinery.  We  confess  to  a prejudice  in  favor  of  the  honest 
work  of  hand,,  in  matters  of  art,  and  prefer  the  rough  workman- 
ship of  the  painter  to  the  smooth  copies  of  his  performances 
w"hich  are  produced,  for  the  most  part,  on  the  wood-block  or 
the  steel-plate. 

The  theory  will  possibly  be  objected  to  by  many  of  our 
readers  : the  best  proof  in  its  favor,  we  think,  is,  that  the  state 
of  art  amongst  the  people  in  France  and  Germany,  where  pub- 
lishers are  not  so  wealthy  or  enterprising  as  with  us,*  and 
where  Lithography  is  more  practised,  is  infinitely  higher  than 
in  England,  and  the  appreciation  more  correct.  As  draughts- 
men, the  French  and  German  painters  are  incomparably  superior 
to  our  own  ; and  with  art,  as  with  any  other  commodity,  the 
demand  will  be  found  pretty  equal  to  the  supply  : with  us,  the 
general  demand  is  for  neatness,  prettiness,  and  what  is  called 
effect  in  pictures,  and  these -can  be  rendered  completely,  nay, 
improved,  by  the  engraver’s  conventional  manner  of  copying 
the  artist’s  performances.  But  to  copy  fine  expression  and  fine 
drawing,  the  engraver  himself  must  be  a fine  artist ; and  let 
anybody  examine  the  host  of  picture-books  which  appear  every 
Christinas,  and  say  whether,  for  the  most  part,  painters  or 
engravers  possess  any  artistic  merit?  We  boast,  nevertheless, 
of  some  of  the  best  engravers  and  painters  in  Europe.  Here, 

* These  countries  are,  to  be  sure,  inundated  with  the  productions  of 
our  market,  in  tlie  shape  of  Byron  Beauties,  reprints  from  the  “ Keep- 
sakes,” “ Books  of  Beauty,”  and  such  trasli ; hut  these  are  only  of  late 
years,  and  their  original  schools  of  art  are  still  flourishing. 


CARTCATURTvS  AXl)  LITHOGRAPHY. 


151 


again,  the  snp[»ly  is  aecounted  for  by  the  demand  ; our  highest 
class  is  rieliei'  tlniu  any  otlier  aiistocraey,  (jnite  as  well  in- 
structed, and  can  judge  and  })ay  for  tine  [)ictures  and  engravings. 
But  these  costly  productions  are  lor  the  few,  and  not  for  the 
many,  who  liave  not  3'et  certainl}’  arrived  at  properly  appre- 
ciating fine  art. 

Take  the  standard  “ Album”  for  instance  — that  unfortunate 
collection  of  deformed  Zuleikas  and  Medoras  (from  the  “Byron 
Beauties”),  the  Flowers,  Gems,  ISouvenirs,  Caskets  of  Loveli- 
ness, Beaut}’,  as  they  may  be  called  ; glaring  caricatures  of 
flowers,  singly,  in  groups,  in  flower-pots,  or  with  hideous 
deformed  little  Cupids  sporting  among  them ; of  what  are 
called  “ mezzotinto,”  pencil-drawings,  p<^oi^^li-P^^^^tings,”  and 
what  not.  “ The  Album  ” is  to  be  found  invariably  upon  tlie 
round  rosewood  brass-inlaid  drawing-room  talfle  of  the  middle 
classes,  and  with  a couifle  of  “Annuals”  besides,  which  flank 
it  on  the  same  table,  represents  the  art  of  the  house  ; perhaps 
there  is  a porti'ait  of  the  master  of  the  house  in  the  dining- 
room, grim-glancing  fi’om  above  the  mantel-piece  ; and  of  tlie 
mistress  over  the  piano  u[)  staii's  ; add  to  these  se  ne  odious 
miniatures  of  the  sons  and  daughters,  on  each  side  of  the  chim- 
ney-glass ; and  here,  commonly  (we  ap[>eal  to  the  reader  if  this 
is  an  overcharged  picture),  the  collection  ends.  The  family 
goes  to  the  Exhibition  once  a year,  to  the  National  Galleiy 
once  in  ten  years  : to  the  former  place  they  have  an  inducement 
to  go ; there  are  their  own  portraits,  or  the  portraits  of  their 
friends,  or  the  poi’traits  of  public  characters  ; and  you  will  see 
them  infallibly  wondering  over  Nv>.  2645  in  the  catalogue,  rep- 
resenting “ The  Portrait  of  a Lady,”  or  of  the  “ First  Mayor 
of  Little  Pedlington  since  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill ; ” or 
else  bustling  and  squeezing  among  the  miniatures,  where  lies 
the  chief  attraction  of  the  Gallery.  England  has  produced, 
owing  to  the  effects  of  this  class  of  admirers  of  art,  two  admi- 
rable, and  five  hundred  very  clever,  portrait  painters.  Flow 
many  arf/sts?  Let  the  reader  count  upon  his  five  fingers,  and 
see  if,  living  at  the  present  moment,  he  can  name  one  for  each. 

If,  from  this  examination  of  our  own  worthy  middle  classes, 
we  look  to  the  same  class  in  France,  what  a difference  do  we 
find ! ITumble  cafes  in  country  towns  have  their  walls  covered 
with  pleasing  picture  papers,  representing  “ Les  Gloires  de 
VArmee  Frangaisef’  the  “Seasons,”  the  “Four  Quarters  of 
the  World,”  “Cupid  and  Psyche,”  or  some  other  allegory, 
landscape  or  history,  rudely  painted,  as  papers  for  walls  usu- 
ally are  ; but  the  figures  are  all  tolerably  well  drawn  ; and  the 


152 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


common  taste,  which  has  caused  a demand  for  such  things,  is 
undeniable.  In  Paris,  the  manner  in  which  the  cafes  and 
houses  of  the  restaurateurs  are  ornamented,  is,  of  course,  a 
thousand  times  richer,  and  nothing  can  be  more  beautiful,  or 
more  exquisite^  finished  and  correct,  than  the  designs  which 
adorn  maii}^  of  them.  We  are  not  prepared  to  say  what  sums 
were  expended  upon  the  painting  of  “ Very’s  ” or  “ Vefour’s,” 
of  the  “ Salle  Musarcl,”  or  of  numberless  other  places  of  public 
resort  in  the  capital.  There  is  many  a shop-keeper  whose  sign 
is  a ver}"  tolerable  picture  ; and  often  have  we  stopped  to  admire 
(the  reader  will  give  us  credit  for  having  remained  outside)  the 
excellent  workmanship  of  the  grapes  and  vine-leaves  over  the 
door  of  some  ver}^  humble,  dirty,  inodorous  shop  of  a marchand 
de  vin. 

These,  however,  serve  only  to  educate  the  public  taste,  and 
are  ornaments  for  the  most  part  much  too  costly  for  the  people. 
But  the  same  love  of  ornament  which  is  shown  in  their  public 
places  of  resort,  appears  in  their  houses  likewise  ; and  eveiy 
one  of  our  readers  who  has  lived  in  Paris,  in  any  lodging, 
magnificent  or  humble,  with  any  family,  however  poor,  may 
bear  witness  how  profusel}'  the  walls  of  his  smart  salon  in  the 
English  quarter,  or  of  his  little  room  au  sixieme  in  the  Pays 
Latin,  has  been  decorated  with  prints  of  all  kinds.  In  the  first, 
probabl}',  with  bad  engravings  on  copper  from  the  bad  and 
tawdry  pictures  of  the  artists  of  the  time  of  the  Empire  ; in  the 
latter,  with  ga}"  caricatures  of  Granville  or  Monnier : military 
pieces,  such  as  are  dashed  ofi'  b}"  Raffet,  Charlet,  Vernet  (one 
can  hardl}^  sa}^  which  of  the  three  designers  has  the  greatest 
merit,  or  the  most  vigorous  hand)  ; or  clever  pictures  from  the 
crayon  of  the  Deverias,  the  admirable  Roqueplan,  or  Decamp. 
We  have  named  here,  we  believe,  the  principal  lithographic 
artists  in  Paris  ; and  those  — as  doubtless  there  are  maiy  — 
of  our  readers  who  have  looked  over  Monsieur  Aubert’s  port- 
folios, or  gazed  at  that  famous  caricature-shop  window  in  the 
Rue  de  Coq,  or  are  even  acquainted  with  the  exterior  of  Mon- 
sieur Delaporte’s  little  emporium  in  the  Burlington  Arcade, 
need  not  be  told  how  excellent  the  productions  of  all  these 
artists  are  in  their  genre.  We  get  in  these  engravings  the 
loisirs  of  men  of  genius,  not  the  finikin  performances  of  labored 
mediocrity,  as  with  us  : all  these  artists  are  good  painters,  as 
well  as  good  designers  ; a design  from  them  is  worth  a whole 
gross  of  Books  of  Beaut}' ; and  if  we  might  raise  a humble  sup- 
plication to  the  artists  in  our  own  country  of  similar  merit  — to 
such  men  as  Leslie,  Maclise,  Herbert,  Cattermole,  and  others  — 


CARICATURES  AND  LITHOGRAPHY. 


153 


A would  be,  tluit  the}'  should,  after  the  example  of  their  French 
brethren  and  of  the  English  landscape  painters,  take  chalk  in 
hand,  produce  their  own  copies  of  their  own  sketches,  and  never 
more  draw  a single  ‘"F^orsaken  One,”  ‘“Rejected  One,”  “De- 
jected One  ” at  the  enti’eaty  of  any  [)ublishcr  or  for  the  pages  of 
any  Book  of  Beauty,  Royalty,  or  Loveliness  whatever. 

Can  there  be  a more  pleasing  wallc  in  the  whole  world  than 
a stroll  througli  the  Gallery  of  the  i^ouvre  on  a fete-day  ; not  to 
look  so  much  at  the  pictures  as  at  the  lookers-on  ? Thousands 
of  the  poorer  classes  are  there  : mechanics  in  their  Sunday 
clothes,  smiling  grisettes,  smart  dapper  soldiers  of  the  line, 
with  bronzed  wondering  faces,  marching  together  in  little 
companies  of  six  or  seven,  and  stopping  every  now  and  then 
at  Napoleon  or  Leonidas  as  they  appear  in  proper  vulgar 
heroics  in  the  pictures  of  David  or  Gros.  The  taste  of  these 
people  will  hardl}^  be  approved  by  the  connoisseur,  but  they 
have  a taste  for  art.  Can  the  same  be  said  of  our  lower 
classes,  wbio,  if  they  are  inclined  to  be  sociable  and  amused 
in  their  holidays,  have  no  place  of  resort  but  the  tap-room  or 
tea-garden,  and  no  food  for  conversation  except  such  as  can  be 
built  upon  the  politics  or  the  police  reports  of  the  last  Sunday 
paper?  So  much  has  Church  and  State  puritanism  done  for  us 
— so  well  has  it  succeeded  in  materializing  and  binding  down 
to  the  earth  the  imagination  of  men,  for  which  God  has  made 
another  world  (which  certain  statesmen  take  but  too  little  into 
account)  — that  fair  and  beautiful  world  of  heart,  in  which  there 
can  be  nothing  selfish  or  sordid,  of  which  Dulness  has  forgotten 
the  existence,  and  which  Bigotry  has  endeavored  to  shut  out 
from  sight  — 

“ On  a banni  les  demons  et  les  fees, 

Le  raisonner  tristement  s’accredite  : 

On  court,  lielas ! apres  la  verite  : 

All ! croyez  moi,  ferreur  a son  me  rite  ! ” 

We  are  not  putting  in  a plea  here  for  demons  and  fairies,  as 
Voltaire  does  in  the  above  exquisite  lines  ; nor  about  to  ex- 
patiate on  the  beauties  of  error,  for  it  has  none  ; but  the  clank 
of  steam-engines,  and  the  shouts  of  politicians,  and  the  struggle 
for  gain  or  bread,  and  the  loud  denunciations  of  stupid  bigots, 
have  wellnigh  smothered  poor  Fancy  among  us.  We  boast  of 
our  science,  and  vaunt  our  superior  moralit3^  Does  the  latter 
exist?  In  spite  of  all  the  forms  which  our  polic}^  has  invented 
to  secure  it — in  spite  of  all  the  preachers,  all  the  meeting- 
houses,  and  all  the  legislative  enactments  — if  any  person  will 


154 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


take  upon  himself  the  painful  labor  of  purchasing  and  perusing 
some  of  the  cheap  periodical  prints  which  form  the  people’s 
library  of  amusement,  and  contain  what  maj"  be  presumed  to 
be  their  standard  in  matters  of  imagination  and  fanc}^,  he  will 
see  how  false  the  claim  is  that  we  bring  forward  of  superior 
morality.  The  aristocracy  who  are  so  eager  to  maintain,  were, 
of  course,  not  the  last  to  feel  the  anno^'ance  of  the  legislative 
restrictions  on  the  Sabbath,  and  eagerly  seized  upon  that  happy 
invention  for  dissipating  the  gloom  and  ennui  ordered  b}^  Act 
of  Parliament  to  prevail  on  that  day  — the  Sunda}^  paper.  It 
might  be  read  in  a club-room,  where  the  poor  could  not  see 
how  their  betters  ordained  one  thing  for  the  vulgar,  and  another 
for  themselves  ; or  in  an  eas^^-chair,  in  the  study,  whither  my 
lord  retires  every  Sunday  for  his  devotions.  It  dealt  in  private 
scandal  and  ribaldry,  011I3’  the  more  piquant  for  its  prett}^  Aims}' 
veil  of  double-entendre.  It  was  a fortune  to  the  publisher,  and 
it  became  a necessary  to  the  reader,  which  he  could  not  do 
without,  au}^  more  than  without  his  snutf-box,  his  opera-box, 
or  his  chasse  after  coffee.  The  delightful  novelt}"  could  not  for 
any  time  be  kept  exclusive!}’  for  the  haul  ton ; and  from  my 
lord  it  descended  to  his  valet  or  tradesmen,  and  from  Gros- 
venor  Square  it  spread  all  the  town  through ; so  that  now  the 
lower  classes  have  their  scandal  and  ribaldry  organs,  as  well  as 
their  betters  (the  rogues,  the}’  ivill  imitate  them  !)  and  as  their 
tastes  are  somewhat  coarser  than  my  lord’s,  and  their  numbers 
a thousand  to  one,  why  of  course  the  prints  have  increased, 
and  the  proffigacy  has  been  diffused  in  a ratio  exactly  pro- 
portionable to  the  demand,  until  the  town  is  infested  with  such 
a number  of  monstrous  publications  of  the  kind  as  would  have 
put  Abbe  Dubois  to  the  blush,  or  made  Louis  XV.  cry  shame. 
Talk  of  English  morality! — the  worst  licentiousness,  in  the 
worst  period  of  the  French  monarchy,  scarcely  equalled  the 
wickedness  of  this  Sabbath-keeping  country  of  ours. 

The  reader  will  be  glad,  at  last,  to  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  we  would  fain  draw  from  all  these  descriptions  — why  does 
this  immorality  exist?  Because  the  people  must  be  amused, 
and  have  not  been  taught  how ; because  the  upper  classes, 
frightened  by  stupid  cant,  or  absoiKed  in  material  wants,  have 
not  as  yet  learned  the  relinement  which  only  the  cultivation  of 
art  can  give  ; and  when  their  intellects  are  uneducated,  and 
tlieir  tastes  are  eoarse,  the  tastes  and  amusements  of  classes 
still  more  ignorant  must  be  coarse  and  vicious  likewise,  in  an 
increased  proportion. 

Such  discussions  and  violent  attacks  upon  high  and  low. 


CARICATURES  AND  LITHOGRAPHY. 


155 


Sabbath  Bills,  politicians,  and  what  not,  ina}'  appear,  perhaps, 
out  of  place  in  a few  pages  which  purport  011I3’  to  give  an  ac- 
count of  some  French  drawings:  all  we  would  urge  is,  that,  in 
P" ranee,  these  prints  are  made  because  the}’  are  liked  and  ap- 
})reciated  ; with  ns  they  are  not  made,  because  they  are  not 
liked  and  ap[)reciated : and  the  more  is  the  pity.  Notliing 
merely  intellectual  will  ])c  popular  among  us  : we  do  not  love 
beauty  for  beauty’s  sake,  as  Germans  ; or  wit,  for  wit’s  sake, 
as  the  P'rench  : for  abstract  art  we  liave  no  appreciation.  We 
admire  II.  B.’s  caricatures,  because  they  are  the  caricatures  of 
well-known  [)olitical  charactei's,  not  because  they  are  witty  ; 
and  Boz,  because  he  writes  us  good  [)alpal)le  stories  (if  we  may 
use  such  a word  to  a story)  ; and  jMadame  Vestris,  because  she 
has  tlie  most  beautiliilly  sha[)ed  legs  ; — the  art  of  the  designer, 
the  writer,  the  actress  (each  admirable  in  its  way,)  is  a very 
minor  consideration  ; each  might  liave  ten  times  the  wit,  and 
would  ])e  ({uite  unsuccessful  without  their  sul)stantial  points  of 
po})ularity. 

In  France  such  matters  are  far  better  managed,  and  the 
love  of  art  is  a thousand  times  more  keen  ; and  (from  this  feel- 
ing, surely)  how  much  superiority  is  there  in  Pb’ench  society 
over  our  own  ; how  much  better  is  social  happiness  understood  ; 
how  much  more  manly  equality  is  there  between  Pb'enchman 
and  Pb-encliman,  than  between  rich  and  poor  in  our  own 
country,  with  all  our  superior  wealth,  instruction,  and  political 
freedom  ! There  is,  amongst  the  humblest,  a gayety,  cheerful- 
ness, politeness,  and  sobriety,  to  which,  in  England,  no  class 
can  show  a parallel : and  these,  be  it  remembered,  are  not  only 
qualities  for  holidays,  but  for  working-days  too,  and  add  to  the 
enjo}unent  of  human  life  as  much  as  good  clothes,  good  beef,  or 
good  w’ages.  If,  to  our  freedom,  we  could  l)ut  add  a little  of 
their  happiness  ! — it  is  one,  after  all,  of  the  cheapest  com- 
modities in  the  world,  and  in  the  power  of  every  man  (with 
means  of  gaining  decent  bread)  who  has  the  will  or  the  skill 
to  use  it. 

We  are  not  going  to  trace  the  history  of  the  rise  and  prog- 
ress of  art  in  France  ; our  business,  at  present,  is  only  to 
speak  of  one  branch  of  art  in  that  country  — lithographic  de- 
signs, and  those  chiefly  of  a humorous  character.  A history  of 
I rench  caricature  was  published  in  Paris,  two  or  three  years 
back,  illustrated  by  numerous  copies  of  designs,  from  the'  time 
of  Henry  III.  to  our  own  day.  We  can  only  speak  of  this 
work  from  memory,  having  been  unable,  in  Londoii,  to  procure 
the  sight  of  a copy  ; but  our  impression,  at  the  time  we  saw  the 


156 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


collection,  was  as  unfavorable  as  could  possibly  be:  nothing 
could  be  more  meagre  than  the  wit,  or  poorer  than  the  execu- 
tion, of  the  whole  set  of  drawings.  Under  the  Empire,  art,  as 
may  be  imagined,  was  at  a very  low  ebb  ; and,  aping  the  Gov- 
ernment of  the  day,  and  catering  to  the  national  taste  and 
vanity,  it  was  a kind  of  tawdiy  caricature  of  the  sublime  ; of 
wliich  the  pictures  of  David  and  Girodet,  and  almost  the  entire 
collection  now  at  the  Luxembourg  Palace,  will  give  prett}’  fair 
examples.  Swollen,  distorted,  unnatural,  the  painting  was 
something  like  the  politics  of  those  days  ; with  force  in  it, 
nevertheless,  and  something  of  grandeur,  that  will  exist  in 
spite  of  taste,  and  is  born  of  energetic  will.  A man,  disposed 
to  write  comparisons  of  characters,  might,  for  instance,  find 
some  striking  analogies  between  mountebank  Murat,  with  his 
irresistible  bravery  and  horsemanship,  who  was  a kind  of  mix- 
ture of  Duguesclin  and  Ducrow,  and  Mountebank  David,  a 
fierce,  powerful  painter  and  genius,  w'hose  idea  of  beaut}'  and 
sublimity  seemed  to  have  been  gained  from  the  bloody  melodra- 
mas on  the  Boulevard.  Both,  however,  were  great  in  their  way, 
and  were  worshipped  as  gods,  in  those  heathen  times  of  false 
belief  and  hero-worship. 

As  for  poor  caricature  and  freedom  of  the  press,  they,  like 
the  rightful  princess  in  a fairy  tale,  wdtli  the  merry  fantastic 
dwarf,  her  attendant,  were  entirely  in  the  power  of  the  giant 
who  ruled  the  land.  The  Princess  Press  was  so  closely  watched 
and  guarded  (with  some  little  show,  nevertheless,  of  I’espect  for 
her  rank ),  that  she  dared  not  utter  a word  of  her  own  thoughts  ; 
and,  for  poor  Caricature,  he  was  gagged,  and  put  out  of  the 
way  altogether : imprisoned  as  completely  as  ever  Asmodeus 
w'as  in  his  phial. 

How  the  Press  and  her  attendant  fared  in  succeeding  reigns, 
is  well  known  ; their  condition  was  little  bettered  by  the  down- 
fall of  Na[)oleon  : with  the  accession  of  Charles  X.  they  were 
more  op})ressed  even  than  before  — more  than  they  could  bear  ; 
for  so  hard  were  they  })ressed,  that,  as  one  has  seen  when  sail- 
ors are  working  a capstan,  back  of  a sudden  the  bars  flew, 
knocking  to  the  earth  the  men  who  were  endeavoring  to  work 
them.  The  Revolution  came,  and  up  sprung  Caricature  in 
France  ; all  sorts  of  fierce  epigrams  were  discharged  at  the 
flying  monarch,  and  speedily  were  pre[)ared,  too,  for  the  new 
one. 

About  this  time  there  lived  at  Paris  (if  our  information  be 
coiTCct)  a certain  M.  Philipon,  an  indifTercnt  artist  (painting 
was  his  pu-ofession) , a tolerable  designer,  and  an  admirable  wit 


CAllICATUUES  AND  LITIIOGUAPIIY. 


157 


M.  riiilipon  designed  many  caricatures  himself,  married  the 
sister  of  an  eminent  publisher  of  prints  (M.  Anbert),  and  the 
two,  gathering  about  tliem  a body  of  wits  and  artists  like  them- 
selves, set  u[)  j(j»iir]ials  of  tluar  own  : — La  Caricature^  first 
published  once  a week  ; and  the  Charivari  afterwards,  a daily 
})aper,  in  which  a design  also  appears  daily. 

At  lirst  the  caricatures  inserted  in  the  Charivari  were  chielly 
political;  and  a most  cui-ious  contest  speedily  commenced  lie- 
tween  the  State  and  iM.  Idiilipon’s  little  army  in  the  (Jalerie 
Vero-Dodat.  Half  a dozen  poor  artists  on  the  one  side,  and  his 
Majesty  Louis  Lliilippe,  his  august  family,  and  the  numberless 
placemen  and  sup[)orters  ol‘  the  monarchy,  on  the  other  ; it  was 
something  like  Thersites  girding  at  Ajax,  and  [liercing  tlirough 
the  folds  of  the  ch/pei  septev/p/icis  with  the  jioisonous  .shafts  of 
his  scorn.  Our  French  Thersites  was  not  always  an  hoiu'st 
oiiponent,  it  must  be  confessed  ; and  many  an  attack  was  made 
upon  the  gigantic  enemy,  which  was  cowardly,  false,  and  ma- 
lignant. But  to  see  the  monster  writhing  under  the  effects  of 
the  arrow  — to  see  his  uncouth  fury  in  return,  and  the  blind 
blows  that  he  dealt  at  his  diminutive  opponent!  — not  one  of 
these  told  in  a hundred  ; when  they  did  tell,  it  may  be  imagined 
that  they  were  fierce  enough  in  all  conscience,  and  served  almost 
to  annihilate  the  adversary. 

To  speak  more  plainly,  and  to  dro})  the  metaphor  of  giant 
and  dwarf,  the  King  of  the  French  suffered  so  much,  his  Min- 
isters were  so  mercilessly  ridiculed,  liis  family  and  his  own 
remarkable  figure  drawn  with  such  odious  and  grotesque  re- 
semblance, in  fonciful  attitudes,  circumstances,  and  disguises, 
so  ludicrously  mean,  and  often  so  appropriate,  that  the  King 
was  obliged  to  descend  into  the  lists  and  battle  his  ridiculous 
enemy  in  form.  Fh'osecutions,  seizures,  fines,  regiments  of 
furious  legal  officials,  were  first  brought  into  play  against  poor 
M.  Philipon  and  his  little  dauntless  troop  of  malicious  artists; 
some  few  were  bribed  out  of  his  ranks  ; and  if  they  did  not,  like 
Gilraj’  in  England,  turn  their  weapons  upon  their  old  friends, 
at  least  laid  down  their  arms,  and  would  fight  no  more.  The 
bribes,  fines,  indictments,  and  loud-tongued  avocats  du  Roi 
made  no  impression  ; Philipon  repaired  the  defeat  of  a fine  by 
some  fresh  and  furious  attack  upon  his  great  enemy : if  his 
epigrams  were  more  covert,  they  were  no  less  bitter ; if  he  was 
beaten  a dozen  times  before  a jury,  he  had  eighty  or  ninety 
victories  to  show  in  the  same  field  of  battle,  and  every  victory 
and  every  defeat  brought  him  new  sympathy.  Eveiy  one  who 
was  at  Paris  a few  years  since  must  recollect  the  famous 


158 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


poire'"  which  was  chalked  upon  all  the  walls  of  the  cit}",  and 
which  bore  so  ludicrous  a resemblance  to  Louis  Philippe.  The 
poire  became  an  object  of  prosecution,  and  M.  Philipon  ap- 
peared before  a jury  to  answer  for  the  crime  of  inciting  to 
contempt  against  the  King’s  person,  b}'  giving  such  a ludicrous 
version  of  his  face.  Philipon,  for  defence,  produced  a sheet  of 
[)aper,  and  drew  a poire^  a real  large  Burgundy  pear : in  the 
lower  parts  round  and  capacious,  narrower  near  the  stalk,  and 
crowned  with  two  or  three  careless  leaves.  “There  was  no 
treason  in  that^"  he  said  to  the  jury  ; “ could  aii}^  one  object  to 
sucli  a harmless  botanical  representation?”  Then  he  drew  a 
second  pear,  exactly  like  the  former,  except  that  one  or  two 
lines  w^ere  scrawled  in  the  midst  of  it,  wdiich  bore  somehow  a 
ludicrous  resemblance  to  the  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth  of  a cele- 
bi'ated  personage  ; and,  lastl}",  he  drew  the  exact  portrait  of 
Louis  Philippe  ; the  well-known  toupet,  the  ample  whiskers  and 
jowl  were  there,  neither  extenuated  nor  set  down  in  malice. 

Can  I help  it,  gentlemen  of  the  juiy,  then,”  said  he,  “if  his 
Majesty’s  face  is  like  a pear?  Sa}'  yourselves,  respectable 
citizens,  is  it,  or  is  it  not,  like  a pear?”  Such  eloquence  could 
not  fail  of  its  effect ; the  artist  was  acquitted,  and  La  poire  is 
immortal. 

At  last  came  the  famous  September  laws  : the  freedom  of 
the  Press,  which,  from  August,  1830,  was  to  be  ''''  desormais 
line  veritei”  was  calmly  strangled  b}'  the  Monarch  who  had 
gained  his  crown  for  his  supposed  championship  of  it ; by  his 
IMinisters,  some  of  whom  had  been  stout  Republicans  on  paper 
but  a few  years  before  ; and  b}'  the  Chamber,  which,  such  is 
the  blessed  constitution  of  French  elections,  will  generally 
vote,  unvote,  revote  in  any  way  the  Government  wishes. 
AVith  a wondrous  union,  and  happy  forgetfulness  of  principle, 
monarch,  ministers,  and  deputies  issued  the  restriction  laws  ; 
the  Press  was  sent  to  prison  ; as  for  the  poor  dear  Caricature, 
it  was  fairly  murdered.  No  more  political  satires  appear 
now,  and  “ through  the  eye,  correct  the  heart ; ” no  more  poires 
ripen  on  the  walls  of  the  metropolis  ; Philipon’s  political  occu- 
pation is  gone. 

But  there  is  always  food  for  satire  ; and  the  French  carica- 
turists, being  no  longer  allowed  to  hold  up  to  ridicule  and 
reprobation  the  King  and  the  deputies,  have  found  no  lack  of 
subjects  for  the  pencil  in  the  ridicules  and  rascalities  of  com- 
mon life.  Wq  have  said  that  public  decenc}^  is  greater  amongst 
the  French  than  amongst  us,  which,  to  some  of  our  readers, 
may  appear  paradoxical ; but  we  shall  not  attempt  to  argue 


CARICATURES  AMD  LITHOGRAPHY. 


159 


that,  in  private  rogueiy,  onr  neighbors  are  not  oiir  equals. 
The  of  Gisquet,  wliicli  lias  appeared  lately  in  the  papers, 

shows  how  deep  the  demoralization  must  be,  and  how  a Gov- 
ernment, based  itself  on  dishonest}^  (a  tyraniyy  that  is,  under 
the  title  and  fiction  of  a democracy,)  must  practise  and  admit 
corruption  in  its  own  and  in  its  agents’  dealings  with  the 
nation.  Accordingly,  of  cheating  contracts,  of  ministers  dab- 
bling with  the  funds,  or  extracting  underhand  profits  for  the 
granting  of  unjust  privileges  and  mono[)olies, — of  grasping, 
envious  police  restrictions,  which  destroy  the  freedom,  and, 
with  it,  the  integrity  of  commerce,  — those  who  like  to  examine 
such  details  may  lind  plenty  in  French  history : the  whole 
French  linance  system  has  been  a swindle  from  the  da\'S  of 
Luvois,  or  Law,  down  to  the  present  time.  The  Government 
swindles  the  public,  and  the  small  traders  swindle  their  cus- 
tomers, on  the  authority  and  example  of  the  superior  powers. 
Hence  the  art  of  roguery,  under  such  high  [latronage,  maintains 
in  France  a noble  front  of  impudence,  and  a fine  audacious 
openness,  which  it  does  not  wear  in  our  country. 

Among  the  various  characters  of  rogueiy  which  the  F rench 
satirists  have  amused  themselves  by  depicting,  there  is  one  of 
which  the  greatness  (using  the  w'ord  in  the  sense  which  Mr. 
Jonathan  Wild  gave  to  it)  so  far  exceeds  that  of  all  others, 
embracing,  as  it  does,  all  in  turn,  that  it  has  come  to  be  con- 
sidered the  ty’pe  of  roguery  in  general ; and  now,  just  as  all  the 
political  squibs  were  made  to  come  of  old  from  the  lips  of 
Pasquin,  all  the  reflections  on  the  prevailing  cant,  knavery, 
quackeiy,  humbug,  are  put  into  the  mouth  of  Monsieur  Robert 
Macaire. 

A play  was  written,  some  twenty^  y’ears  since,  called  the 
“ Auberge  des  Adrets,”  in  which  the  characters  of  two  robbers 
escaped  from  the  galleys  were  introduced  — Robert  Macaire,  the 
clever  rogue  above  mentioned,  and  Bertrand,  the  stupid  rogue, 
his  friend,  accomplice,  butt,  and  scapegoat,  on  all  occasions  of 
danger.  It  is  needless  to  describe  the  [flay  — a witless  per- 
formance enough,  of  which  the  joke  was  Macaire’s  exaggerated 
style  of  conversation,  a farrago  of  all  sorts  of  high-flown  senti- 
ments such  as  the  French  love  to  indulge  in  — contrasted  with 
his  actions,  which  were  philosophically  unscrupulous.,  and  his 
appearance,  which  was  most  picturesquely  sordid.  The  play^ 
had  been  acted,  w^e  believe,  and  forgotten,  when  a very  clever 
actor,  M.  Frederick  Lemaitre,  took  upon  himself  the  perform- 
ance of  the  character  of  Robert  Macaire,  and  looked,  spoke, 
and  acted  it  to  such  admirable  perfection,  that  the  -whole  town 


IGO 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


xnng  with  applauses  of  the  performance,  and  the  caricaturists 
delighted  to  cop}'  his  singular  figure  and  costume.  M.  Robert 
Macaire  appears  in  a most  picturesque  green  coat,  with  'a 
variety  of  rents  and  patches,  a pair  of  crimson  pantaloons  orna- 
mented in  the  same  way,  enormous  whiskers  and  ringlets,  an 
enormous  stock  and  shirt-frill,  as  dirty  and  ragged  as  stock  and 
shirt-frill  can  be,  the  relic  of  a hat  vei*}'  gayly  cocked  over  one  eye, 
and  a patch  to  take  away  somewhat  from  the  brightness  of  the 
other — these  are  the  principal  pieces  of  his  costume — a snuff- 
box like  a creaking  warming-pan,  a handkerchief  hanging  to- 
gether by  a mii'acle,  and  a switch  of  about  the  thickness  of  a 
man’s  thigh,  formed  the  ornaments  of  tins  exquisite  personage, 
lie  is  a compound  of  Fielding’s  “ Blueskin  ” and  Goldsmith’s 
Beau  Tibbs.”  lie  has  the  dirt  and  dandyism  of  the  one,  with 
the  ferocity  of  the  otlier  : sometimes  he  is  made  to  swindle,  but 
where  he  can  get  a shilling  more,  M.  Macaire  will  murder  with- 
out scru[)le : he  performs  one  and  the  other  act  (or  any  in  the 
scale  between  them)  with  a similar  bland  imperturbability,  and 
accompanies  his  actions  with  such  philosophical  remarks  as 
may  be  expected  from  a person  of  his  talents,  his  energies,  his 
amiable  life  and  character. 

Bertrand  is  the  simple  recipient  of  Macaire’s  jokes,  and 
makes  vicarious  atonement  for  his  crimes,  acting,  in  fact,  the 
[)art  which  pantaloon  performs  in  the  pantomime,  who  is  entirely 
under  the  fatal  infiuence  of  clown.  He  is  quite  as  much  a rogue 
as  that  gentleman,  but  he  has  not  his  genius  and  courage.  So,  - 
in  pantomimes,  (it  may,  doubtless,  have  been  remarked  by  the 
reader,)  clown  always  leaps  first,  pantaloon  following  after, 
more  clumsily  and  timidly  than  his  bold  and  accomplished 
friend  and  guide.  AVhatever  Ifiows  are  destined  for  clown,  fall, 
by  some  means  of  ill-luck,  upon  the  pate  of  pantaloon  : when- 
ever the  clown  robs,  the  stolen  articles  are  sure  to  be  found  in 
his  companion’s  pocket ; and  thus  exactly  Robert  Macaire  and 
his  companion  Bertrand  are  made  to  go  through  the  world; 
both  swindlers,  but  the  one  more  accomplished  than  the  other. 
Both  robbing  all  the  world,  and  Robert  i'ol)bing  his  friend,  and, 
in  the  event  of  danger,  leaving  him  faithfully  in  the  lurch. 
Tliere  is,  in  the  two  characters,  some  grotesque  good  for  the 
spectator  — a kind  of  “ Beggars’  Opera  ” moral. 

Ever  since  Robert,  with  his  dandified  rags  and  airs,  his  cane 
and  snuff-box,  and  Bertrand  with  torn  surtout  and  all-absorb- 
ing pocket,  have  appeared  on  the  stage,  they  have  been  popular 
with  the  Parisians  ; and  with  these  two  types  of  clever  and 
stupid  knavery,  M.  Philipon  and  his  companion  Daumier  have 


CARICATURES  AND  LITHOGRAPHY. 


IGl 


created  a world  of  pleasant  satire  upon  all  the  prevailing  abuses 
of  tlie  day. 

Almost  tlie  first  figure  that  these  audacious  caricaturists 
dared  to  depict  was  a [)olitieal  one  : in  IMacaire’s  red  breeches 
and  tattered  coat  aiipeared  no  less  a personage  tlian  the  King 
hiins(‘lf — tlie  old  Poire — in  a country  of  hinnbugs  and  swindlers 
i\w.  facile  priuceps  ; (it  to  govern,  as  he  is  dee[)er  than  all  the 
rogues  in  his  dominions.  lUadrand  was  opposite  to  him,  and 
ha\  ing  listened  with  delight  and  reverence  to  some  tale  of 
knaverv  truly  royal,  was  exclaiming  with  a look  and  voice 
expressive  of  the  most  intense  admiration,  “ An  vieux  bla- 
(jEUii!  va  ! ” — the  word  hlar/ue  is  iintranslatalile  — it  means 
French  humbug  as  distinct  from  all  other ; and  011I3'  those  who 
know  the  value  of  an  epigram  in  France,  an  e[)igram  so  wonder- 
fully just,  a little  word  so  curiously  comprehensive,  can  fancy 
the  kind  of  rage  and  rapture  with  which  it  was  received.  It 
was  a blow  that  shook  the  whole  dynasty.  Thersites  had  there 
given  such  a wound  to  Ajax,  as  Hector  in  arms  could  scarcely 
have  inllicted  : a blow  sutlleicnt  almost  to  create  the  madness 
to  which  the  fabulous  hero  of  Homer  and  Ovid  fell  a pre}'. 

Not  long,  however,  was  French  caricature  allowed  to  attack 
[lersonages  so  illustrious  ; the  September  laws  came,  and  hence- 
forth no  more  e[)igrams  were  launched  against  politics  ; but  the 
caricaturists  were  compelled  to  confine  their  satire  to  subjects 
and  characters  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  State.  The 
Duke  of  Orleans  was  no  longer  to  figure  in  lithography  as  the 
fantastic  Prince  Rosolin  ; no  longer  were  multitudes  (in  chalk) 
to  shelter  under  the  enormous  shadow  o-'  M.  d’ArgouFs  nose  : 
Marshal  Lobaii’s  squirt  was  hung  up  in  peace,  andM.  Thiers’s 
})igmy  figure  and  round  spectacled  face  w'ere  no  more  to  appear 
in  print. Robert  Macaire  was  driven  out  of  the  Chambers  and 
the  Palace  — his  remarks  were  a great  deal  too  appropriate  and 
too  severe  for  the  ears  of  the  great  men  who  congregated  in 
those  places. 

The  Chambers  and  the  Palace  were  shut  to  him  ; but  the 
rogue,  driven  out  of  his  rogue’s  paradise,  saw  “ that  the  world 
was  all  before  him  where  to  choose,”  and  found  no  lack  of 
opportunities  for  exercising  his  wit.  There  was  the  Bar,  with 
its  roguish  practitioners,  rascally  attorneys,  stupid  juries,  and 
forsworn  judges  ; there  was  the  Bourse,  with  all  its  gambling, 
swindling,  and  hoaxing,  its  cheats  and  its  dupes  ; the  Medical 

* Almost  all  the  principal  public  men  had  been  most  ludicrously  cari- 
catured in  the  Charivari:  those  mentioned  above  were  usually  depicted 
with  the  distinctive  attributes  mentioned  by  us. 

11 


162 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Profession,  and  the  quaeks  who  ruled  it,  alternately  ; the  Stage, 
and  the  cant  that  was  prevalent  there  ; tlie  Fashion,  and  its 
thousand  follies  and  extraA^agances.  Robert  Macaire  had  all 
tliese  to  exploiter.  Of  all  the  empire,  through  all  the  ranks, 
professions,  the  lies,  crimes,  and  absurdities  of  men,  he  may 
make  sport  at  will ; of  all  except  of  a certain  class.  Like  Blue- 
beard’s wife,  he  may  see  everything,  but  is  bidden  to  beware  of 
the  blue  chamber.  Robert  is  more  wise  than  Bluebeard’s  wife, 
and  knows  that  it  would  cost  him  his  head  to  enter  it.  Robert, 
therefore,  keeps  aloof  for  the  moment.  Would  there  be  any 
use  in  his  mart3’rdom  ? Bluebeard  cannot  live  for  ever ; per- 
haps, even  now,  those  are  on  their  w'aj’’  (one  sees  a suspicious 
cloud  of  dust  or  two)  that  are  to  destro}”  him. 

In  the  meantime  Robert  and  his  friend  ha\^e  been  furnishing 
the  designs  that  we  have  before  us,  and  of  Avhich  perhaps  the 
reader  Avill  l)e  edified  by  a brief  description.  We  are  not,  to  be 
sure,  to  judge  of  the  French  nation  b}^  M.  Macaire,  aiyy  more 
than  we  are  to  judge  of  our  own  national  morals  in  the  last 
century  by  such  a book  as  the  “Beggars’  Opera;  ” but  upon 
the  morals  and  the  national  manners,  Avorks  of  satire  afford  a 
Avorld  of  light  that  one  Avould  in  vain  look  for  in  regular  books 
of  liistoiT.  Doctor  Smollett  Avould  have  blushed  to  devote  an}" 
considerable  portion  of  his  pages  to  a discussion  of  the  acts  and 
characiter  of  Mr.  .Jonathan  Wild,  such  a figure  being  hardly 
admissible  among  the  dignified  personages  avIio  usuallv  push  all 
others  out  from  the  [lossession  of  the  histoncal  page  ; but  a 
cha[)ter  of  that  gentleman’s  memoirs,  as  they  are  recorded  in 
that  exmnplary  recueil — the  “ NcAVgate  Calendar;”  na3^  a 
canto  of  the  great  comic  epic  (involving  many  fables,  and  con- 
taining much  exaggeration,  but  still  having  the  seeds  of  truth) 
Avhich  the  satirical  poet  of  those  days  wrote  in  celebration  of 
him — we  mean  Fielding’s  “ Ilistoiy  of  Jonathan  Wild  the 
Great  ” — does  seem  to  us  to  give  a more  curious  picture  of  the 
manners  of  those  times  than  aiy  recognized  history  of  them. 
At  the  close  of  his  history  of  George  II.,  Smollett  condescends 
to  give  a short  chapter  on  Literature  and  Manners.  He  speaks 
of  Glover’s  “ Leonidas,”  Cibber’s  “ Careless  Husband,”  the 
poems  of  Mason,  Gra}",  the  two  Whiteheads,  “the  nervous 
stvle,  extensive  erudition,  and  superior  sense  of  a Corke ; the 
delicate  taste,  the  polished  muse,  and  tender  feeling  of  a 
lyttelton.”  “ King,”  he  savs,  “ shone  unrHalled  in  Roman 
eloquence,  the  female  sex  distinguished  themselves  by  their 
taste  and  ingenuit}".  Miss  Carter  I'ivalled  the  celebrated  Dacier 
in  learning  and  critical  knowledge  ; Mrs.  Lennox  signalized 


CARICATURES  AND  LITHOGRAPHY. 


1G3 


herself  by  many  successful  efforts  of  genius  both  in  ix)etry  and 
prose  ; and  Miss  Reid  excelled  the  celebrated  Rosalba  in  por- 
trait-painting, both  in  miniature  and  at  large,  in  oil  as  well  as 
in  crayons.  The  genius  of  Cervantes  was  transferred  into  the 
novels  of  Fielding,  who  [>aiuted  the  characters  and  ridiculed 
the  follies  of  life  with  ecptal  strength,  humor,  and  propriety. 
The  field  of  history  and  biography  was  cultivated  by  many 
writers  of  ability,  among  whom  we  distinguish  tlic  co[)ious 
Guthrie,  the  circumstantial  Ralph,  the  lal)orious  Carte,  the 
learned  and  elegant  Robertson,  and  above  all,  the  ingenious, 
l)enetrating,  and  com[)rehensive  Hume,”  &c.  Ac.  We  will  quote 
no  more  of  the  passage.  Could  a man  in  the  best  humor  sit 
down  to  write  a graver  satire  ? ^V\\o  cares  for  the  tender  muse 

of  Lyttelton?  Who  knows  the  signal  efforts  of  Mrs.  Lennox’s 
genius?  Who  has  seen  the  admirable  performances,  in  minia- 
ture and  at  large,  in  oil  as  well  as  in  craj’ons,  of  Miss  Reid? 
Laborious  Carte,  and  circumstantial  Ralph,  and  co|)ious  Guth- 
rie, where  are  they,  their  works,  and  their  reputation?  Mrs. 
Lennox’s  name  is  just  as  clean  wiped  out  of  the  list  of  worthies 
as  if  she  had  never  been  V)orn  ; and  Miss  Reid,  though  she  was 
once  actual  flesh  and  blood,  “ rival  in  miniature  and  at  large” 
of  the  celebrated  Rosalba,  she  is  as  if  she  had  never  been  at 
all ; her  little  farthing  rushlight  of  a soul  and  reputation  having 
burnt  out,  and  left  neither  wick  nor  tallow.  Death,  too,  has 
overtaken  copious  Guthrie  and  circumstantial  Ralph.  Only  a 
few  know  whereabouts  is  the  grave  where  lies  laborious  Carte  ; 
and  yet,  O wondrous  power  of  genius  ! Fielding’s  men  and 
women  are  alive,  though  History’s  are  not.  The  progenitors 
of  circumstantial  Ralph  sent  forth,  after  much  labor  and  pains 
of  making,  educating,  feeding,  clothing,  a real  man  child,  a 
great  palpable  mass  of  flesh,  bones,  and  blood  (we  say  nothing 
about  the  spirit),  which  was  to  move  through  the  world,  pon- 
derous, writing  histories,  and  to  die,  having  achieved  the  title 
of  circumstantial  Ralph ; and  lo ! without  any  of  the  trouble 
that  the  parents  of  Ralph  had  undergone,  alone  perhaps  in  a 
watch  or  spunging-house,  fuddled  most  likely,  in  the  blandest, 
easiest,  and  most  good-humored  waj'  in  the  world,  Henry  Field- 
ing makes  a number  of  men  and  women  on  so  many  sheets  of 
paper,  not  onl}^  more  amusing  than  Ralph  or  Miss  Reid,  but 
more  like  flesh  and  blood,  and  more  alive  now  than  the}\  Is 
not  Amelia  preparing  her  husband’s  little  supper?  Is  not  Miss 
Snapp  chastel}^  preventing  the  crime  of  Mr.  Firebrand?  Is  not 
Parson  Adams  in  the  midst  of  his  family,  and  Mr.  Wild  taking 
his  last  bowl  of  punch  with  the  Newgate  Ordinary?  Is  not 


1G4 


THE  PARIS  SKETOIl  BOOK. 


every  one  of  them  a real  substantial  huve-hQQn  personage  now? 
— more  real  than  Reid  or  Ralph  ? For  our  parts,  we  will  not 
take  upon  ourselves  to  sa3^  that  they  do  not  exist  somewhere 
else : that  the  actions  attributed  to  them  have  not  reall}^  taken 
place  ; certain  we  are  that  the}-  are  more  worth}-  of  credence 
than  Ralph,  who  ma}’  or  ma}’-  not  have  been  circumstantial ; 
Avho  may  or  ma}"  not  even  have  existed,  a point  unworthy  of 
disputation.  As  for  Miss  Reid^  we  will  take  an  affidavit  that 
neither  in  miniature  nor  at  large  did  she  excel  the  celebrated 
Rosalba ; and  with  regard  to  Mrs.  Lennox,  we  consider  her 
to  be  a mere  figment,  like  Narcissa,  Miss  Tabitha  Bramble,  or 
any  hero  or  heroine  depicted  by  the  historian  of  ‘ ‘ Peregrine 
Pickle.” 

In  like  manner,  after  viewing  nearly  ninety  portraits  of 
Robert  Macaire  and  his  friend  Bertrand,  all  strongly  resem- 
bling each  other,  we  are  inclined  to  believe  in  them  as  historical 
personages,  and  to  canvass  gravely  the  circumstances  of  their 
lives.  Why  should  we  not?  Have  we  not  their  portraits ? Are 
not  they  sufficient  proofs?  If  not,  we  must  discredit  Napoleon 
(as  Archbishop  Whately  teaches),  for  about  his  figure  and  him- 
self we  have  no  more  authentic  testimony. 

Let  the  reality  of  M.  Robert  Macaire  and  his  friend  M. 
Bertrand  be  granted,  if  but  to  gratify  our  own  fondness  for 
those  exquisite  characters : we  find  the  worthy  pair  in  the 
French  capital,  mingling  with  all  grades  of  its  society,  pars 
magna  in  the  intrigues,  pleasures,  perplexities,  rogueries,  spec- 
ulations, which  are  carried  on  in  Paris,  as  in  our  own  chief 
city  ; for  it  need  not  be  said  that  roguery  is  of  no  country  nor 
clime,  but  finds  o)?  7r«i/Tayou  ye  TTarpU  g (36(TKov(Ta  y»},  is  a citizen 
of  all  countries  where  the  quarters  are  good  ; among  our  merry 
neighbors  it  finds  itself  very  much  at  its  ease. 

Not  being  endowed,  then,  with  patrimonial  wealth,  but 
compelled  to  exercise  their  genius  to  obtain  distinction,  or  even 
subsistence,  we  see  Messrs.  Bertrand  and  Macaire,  by  turns, 
adopting  all  trades  and  professions,  and  exercising  each  with  ■ 
their  own  peculiar  ingenuity.  As  public  men,  we  have  spoken 
already  of  their  appearance  in  one  or  two  important  characters, 
and  stated  that  the  Government  grew  fairly  jealous  of  them, 
excluding  them  from  office,  as  the  Whigs  did  Lord  Brougham. 
As  private  individuals,  they  are  made  to  distinguish  themselves 
as  the  founders  of  journals,  sociefes  en  commandite  (companies 
of  which  the  members  are  irresponsible  beyond  the  amount 
of  their  shares),  and  all  sorts  of  commercial  speculations, 
requiring  intelligence  and  honesty  on  the  part  of  the  dh 


OARlCATUilES  AND  LlTllOGUArilY. 


1G5 


S'ectors',  confidence  and  liberal  disbursements  from  the  share- 
holders. 

These  are,  among  the  French,  so  numerous,  and  have  been 
of  late  years  (in  tlie  shape  of  Newspaper  Companies,  Bitumen 
Companies,  Galvanized-lron  C'ompanies,  Railroad  Companies, 
Ac*.)  pursued  with  sucli  a blind  /brc*/ and  lust  of  gain,  b}’  that 
c*asil}'  excited  and  imaginative  j)eople,  that,  as  may  be  imagined, 
the  satirist  has  tound  plent}'  of  occasion  for  remark,  and  M. 
Macaire  and  his  friend  innumerable  opportunities  for  exercising 
their  talents. 

We  know  nothing  of  M.  Emile  de  Girardin,  except  that,  in 
a duel,  he  shot  the  best  man  in  France,  Armand  Carrel;  and 
in  Ciirardin’s  favor  it  must  be  said,  that  he  had  no  other  alter- 
native ; but  was  right  in  provoking  the  duel,  seeing  that  the 
whole  Republican  party  hacl  vowed  liis  destruction,  and  that  he 
fought  and  killed  their  champion,  as  it  were.  We  know  noth- 
ing of  M.  Girardin’s  [irivate  character:  but,  as  far  as  we  can 
judge  from  the  French  [lublic  [irints,  he  seems  to  be  the  most 
speculative  of  speculators,  and,  of  course,  a fair  butt  for  the 
malice  of  the  caricaturists.  His  one  great  crime,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  French  Republicans  and  Republican  newspaper  pro- 
prietors, was,  that  Girardin  set  up  a journal,  as  he  called  it, 
f ranch ement  monarchique^'” — a journal  in  the  pay  of  the  mon- 
archy, that  is, — and  a journal  that  cost  only  fort\' francs  by 
the  year.  The  National  costs  twice  as  much  ; the  Charivari 
itself  costs  half  as  much  again  ; and  though  all  news[)apers,  of 
all  parties,  concurred  in  '^snubbing”  poor  M.  Girardin  and 
his  journal,  the  Republican  prints,  were  by  far  the  most  bitter 
against  him,  thundering  daih’  accusations  and  personalities ; 
whether  the  aluise  was  well  or  ill  founded,  we  know  not. 
Hence  arose  the  duel  with  Carrel;  after  the  termination  of 
which,  Girardin  put  by  his  pistol,  and  vowed,  very  properly,  to 
assist  in  the  shedding  of  no  more  blood.  Girardin  had  been 
the  originator  of  numerous  other  speculations  besides  the 
journal:  the  capital  of  these,  like  that  of  the  journal,  was 
raised  b}’  shares,  and  the  shareliolders,  by  some  fataliW,  have 
found  themselves  wofully  in  the  lurch  ; while  Girardin  carries 
on  the  war  gayly,  is,  or  was,  a member  of  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  has  money,  goes  to  Court,  and  [>ossesses  a certain 
kind  of  reputation.  He  invented,  we  believe,  the  “*  Institution 
Agronome  de  Coetbo,”*  the  “ Ph3^sionotype,”  the  ‘‘Journal 
des  Connoissances  Utiles,”  the  “ Pantheon  Litteraire,”  and  the 

* It  is  not  necessary  to  enter  into  descriptions  of  these  various  inven- 
tions. 


IGG 


THE  EAIHS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


system  of  “Primes”  — premiums,  that  is  — to  be  given,  by 
lottery,  to  certain  subscribers  in  these  institutions.  Could 
Uobert  Macaire  see  such  things  going  on,  and  have  no  hand  in 
them  ? 

Accordingl}^  Messrs.  Macaire  and  Bertrand  are  made  the 
heroes  of  many’  speculations  of  the  kind.  In  almost  the  first 
print  of  our  collection,  Robert  discourses  to  Bertrand  of  his 
projects.  “ Bertrand,”  says  the  disinterested  admirer  of  talent 
and  enterprise,  “J’adore  I’industrie.  Si  tu  veux  nous  creons 
line  banque,  mais  la,  une  vraie  banque  : capital  cent  millions 
de  millions,  cent  milliards  de  milliards  d’actions.  Nous  en- 
fon9ons  la  banque  de  France,  les  banquiers,  les  banquistes ; 
nous  enfoiifons  tout  le  rnoude.”  “ Oui,”  says  Bertrand,  very 
calm  and  stupid,  “mais  les  gendarmes?”  “ Que  tu  es  bCte, 
Bertrand:  est-ce  qu’on  arrete  un  millionaire?”  Such  is  the 
key  to  M.  Macaire’s  philosophy ; and  a wise  creed  too,  as 
times  go. 

Acting  on  these  principles,  Robert  appears  soon  after ; he 
has  not  created  a bank,  but  a journal.  He  sits  in  a chair  of 
state,  and  discourses  to  a shareholder.  Bertrand,  calm  and 
stupid  as  before,  stands  humbly  behind.  “Sir,”  says  the 
editor  of  La  Blague^  journal  quotidieniie,  “our  profits  arise 
from  a new  combination.  The  journal  costs  twenty  francs  ; we 
sell  it  twenty-three  and  a half.  A million  subscribers  make 
three  riui.^ons  and  a half  of  profits  ; there  are  my  figures  ; coin 
tradict  me  by  figures,  or  1 will  bring  an  action  for  libel.”  The 
reader  may  fancy  the  scene  takes  place  in  England,  where  many 
such  a swindling  prospectus  has  obtained  credit  ere  now.  At 
Plate  o3,  Robert  is  still  a journalist ; he  brings  to  the  editor  of 
a pai)cr  an  article  of  his  composition,  a violent  attack  on  a 
law.  “ jMy  dear  IM.  IMacaire,”  says  the  editor,  “ this  must  be 
changed;  we  must  praise  this  law.”  “Bon,  bon!”  says  our 
versatile  IMacaire.  “Jevais  retoucher  9a,  et  je  vous  fais  en 
faveur  de  la  loi  un  article  moiisseiixB 

Can  such  things  be?  Is  it  possilile  that  French  journalists 
can  so  forget  themselves?  The  rogues  1 the}' should  come  to 
England  and  learn  consistency.  The  honesty  of  the  Press  in 
England  is  like  the  air  we  breathe,  without  it  we  die.  No,  no  ! 
in  France,  the  satire  may  do  very  well ; but  for  England  it  is 
too  monstrous.  C’all  the  press  stupid,  call  it  vulgar,  call  it 
violent, — but  honest  it  is.  Who  ever  heard  of  a journal 
changing  its  politics?  0 temporal  0 mores!  as  Robert  Ma- 
caire says,  this  would  be  carrying  the  joke  too  far. 

When  he  has  done  with  newspapers,  Robert  Macaire  begins 


CARICATUKES  AND  LlTllOGRAPriY. 


167 


to  distinguish  himself  on  ’Change,*  as  a ereator  of  companies, 
a vender  of  shares,  or  a dahhlc'r  in  foreign  stock,  “•Buy  my 
coal-mine  shares,”  shouts  Boljert;  gold  mines,  silver  mines, 
diamond  mines,  ‘ sont  de  la  pot-honille  de  la  ratatonille  en 
comparaison  de  ma  houilh'.’ ” ‘"Look,”  says  he,  on  another 
occasion,  to  a very  timid,  o[)en-coimtenanced  client,  “ y^ii 
have  a [)roperty  to  sell ! 1 have  found  the  very  man,  a rich 

capitalist,  a fellow  whose  hills  are  better  than  bank-notes.” 
Jlis  client  sells  ; the  bills  are  taken  in  i)ayment,  and  signed  b}' 
that  respectable  ca[)italist.  Monsieur  de  Saint  liertrand.  At 
Plate  81,  we  find  him  inditing  a circular  letter  to  all  the  world, 
running  thus  : — “ Sir,  — t regret  to  say  that'  your  application 
lor  shares  in  the  Consolidated  Euro[)ean  Incombustible  Black- 
ing Association  cannot  be  complied  with,  as  all  the  shares  of 
the  C.  H.  I.  B.  A.  were  disposed  of  on  the  day  the}’  were 
issued.  1 have,  nevertheless,  registered  your  name,  and  in 
case  a second  series  should  be  put  forth,  1 shall  have  the  honor 
of  immediately  giving  you  notice.  1 am,  sir,  yours,  Ac.,  the 
Director,  Robert  jMacaire.”  — “Print  300,000  of  these,”  he 
says  to  Bertrand,  “and  [)oison  all  France  with  them.”  As 
usual,  the  stu[)id  Bertrand  remonstrates  — “ But  we  have  not 
sold  a single  share  ; you  have  not  a penny  in  your  pocket, 
and” — “ Bertrand,  you  are  an  ass  ; do  as  1 bid  you.” 

Will  this  satir(3  ap[)ly  anywhere  in  England?  Have  we  any 
Consolidated  Euro[)ean  Blacking  Associations  amongst  us? 
Have  we  penniless  directors  issuing  El  Dorado  prospectuses, 
and  jockeying  their  shares  through  the  market?  For  infor- 
mation on  this  head,  we  must  refer  the  reader  to  the  news- 
papers ; or  if  he  be  connected  with  the  city,  and  acquainted 
with  commercial  men,  he  will  be  al)le  to  say  whether  all  the 
persons  Avhose  names  figure  at  the  head  of  announcements  of 
l)roJected  com[)anies  are  as  rich  as  Rothschild,  or  quite  as 
honest  as  heart  could  desire. 

When  Macaire  has  sufficiently  exploits  the  Bourse,  whether 
as  a gambler  in  the  public  funds  or  other  companies,  he  sagely 
perceives  that  it  is  time  to  turn  to  some  other  i>rofession,  and, 
providing  himself  with  a black  gown,  proposes  blandly  to  Ber- 
trand to  set  up  — a new  religion.  “ Alon  ami,”  says  the  repen- 
tant sinner,  “le  temps  de  la  commandite  va  passer,  maw 
hadauds  ne  passeront  pas.”  (O  rare  sentence  ! it  should  be 
written  in  letters  of  gold!)  “ Occapons  nous  de  ce  qui  est 
Sternel.  Si  nous  fassions  une  religion?”  On  which  M.  Ber- 

* We  liave  given  a descriptioa  of  a genteel  Macaire  in  the  account  of 
M.  de  Bernard’s  novels. 


168 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


trand  remarks,  “ A religion  ! what  the  devil  — a religion  Is  not 
an  eas}^  thing  to  make.”  But  Macaire’s  receipt  is  easy.  “ Get 
a gown,  take  a shop,”  he  sa}^s,  “borrow  some  chairs,  preach 
about  Napoleon,  or  the  discovery  of  America,  or  Moliere  — 
and  there’s  a religion  for  you.” 

We  have  quoted  this  sentence  more  for  the  contrast  it  offers 
wuth  our  own  manners,  than  for  its  merits.  After  the  noble 
paragraph,  “ Les  badauds  ne  passeront  pas.  Occupons  nous 
de  ce  qui  est  eternel,”  one  would  have  expected  better  satire 
upon  cant  than  the  words  that  follow.  We  are  not  in  a condi- 
tion to  say  whether  the  subjects  chosen  are  those  that  had  been 
selected  by  Pere  Enfantin,  or  Chatel,  or  Lacordaire  ; but  the 
words  are  curious,  we  think,  for  the  very  reason  that  the  satire  is 
so  i>oor.  The  fact  is,  there  is  no  religion  in  Paris  ; even  clever 
M.  Philipon,  who  satirizes  everything,  and  must  know,  there- 
fore, some  little  about  the  subject  which  he  ridicules,  has  nothing 
to- say  but,  “ Preach  a sermon,  and  that  makes  a religion  ; aiw- 
thing  will  do.”  If  anything  will  do,  it  is  clear  that  the  religious 
commodity  is  not  in  much  demand.  Tartuffe  had  better  things 
to  say  about  In^pocris}"  in  his  time  ; but  then  Faith  was  alive  ; 
now,  there  is  no  satirizing  religious  cant  in  France,  for  its  con- 
trary, true  religion,  has  disappeared  altogether  ; and  having  no 
substance,  can  cast  no  shadow.  If  a satirist  would  lash  the 
religious  h^q^ocrites  in  England  now  — the  High  Church  hypo- 
crites, the  Low  Church  hypocrites,  the  promiscuous  Dissenting 
hj’pocrites,  the  No  Popery  hypocrites  — he  would  have  ample 
subject  enough.  In  France,  the  religious  hjq^ocrites  went  out 
with  the  Bourbons.  Those  who  remain  pious  in  that  country 
(or,  rather,  we  should  say,  in  the  capital,  for  of  that  we  speak,) 
are  unaffectedly  so,  for  they  have  no  worldly  benefit  to  hope  for 
from  their  piety  ; the  great  majorit3^  have  no  religion  at  all,  and 
do  not  scoff  at  the  few,  for  scoffing  is  the  minorit>  ’s  weapon, 
and  is  passed  alwa^’s  to  the  weaker  side,  whatever  that  may  be. 
Thus  II.  B.  caricatures  the  Ministers:  if, by  any  accident  that 
bod\'  of  men  should  be  dismissed  from  their  situations,  and  be 
succeeded  by  H.  B.’s  friends,  the  Tories,  — what  must  the  poor 
artist  do?  He  must  pine  awa}^  and  die,  if  he  be  not  converted  ; 
he  cannot  always  be  paying  compliments  ; for  caricature  has 
a spice  of  Goethe’s  Devil  in  it,  and  is  “ der  Geist  der  stets 
verneint,”  the  Spirit  that  is  always  denying. 

With  one  or  two  of  the  French  writers  and  painters  of 
caricatures,  the  King  tried  the  experiment  of  briber}^ ; which 
succeeded  occasionally  in  buying  off  the  enemy,  and  bringing 
him  from  the  republican  to  the  roj^al  camp  ; but  when  there,  the 


CARICATURES  AND  LITHOGRAPHY. 


169 


\ deserter  was  never  of  any  use.  Figaro,  when  so  treated,  grew 
fat  and  desponding,  and  lost  all  his  sprightly  verve ; and  Neme^ 
sis  became  as  gentle  as  a (Quakeress.  But  these  instances  ot 
‘‘ratting”  were  not  inan3'.  Some  few  poets  were  bought  over ; 
but,  among  men  following  the  profession  of  the  press,  a change 
of  politics  is  an  inrringement  of  the  point  of  honor,  and  a man 
mwiitfiyld  as  well  as  apostatize.  A very  curious  table  might  be 
made,  signalizing  the  difference  of  the  moral  standard  between 
us  and  the  French.  Why  is  tlie  grossness  and  indelicac}”,  pub- 
licly permitted  in  England,  unknown  in  France,  where  private 
moralit}'  is  certainly  at  a low^er  ebb?  WI13"  is  the  point  of  pri- 
vate honor  now  more  rigidlj^  maintained  among  the  French? 
Wli3^  is  it,  as  it  should  be,  a moral  disgrace  for  a Frenchman  to 
go  into  debt,  and  no  disgrace  for  him  to  cheat  his  customer? 
Wli3^  is  there  more  honesty  and  less  — more  propriet3^  less? 
— and  how  are  we  to  account  for  the  particular  vices  or  virtues 
which  belong  to  each  nation  in  its  turn  ? 

The  above  is  the  Reverend  M.  Macaire’s  solitary  exploit  as 
a spiritual  swindler : as  Maitre  Macaire  in  the  courts  of  law, 
as  avocat^  avoue  — in  a humbler  capacity  even,  as  a prisoner  at 
the  bar,  he  distinguishes  himself  greatl3',  as  ma3^  be  imagined. 
On  one  occasion  we  find  the  learned  gentleman  humanely  visit- 
ing an  unfortunate  detenu — -no  other  person,  in  fact,  than  his 
friend  IM.  Bertrand,  who  has  fallen  into  some  trouble,  and  is 
awaiting  the  sentence  of  the  law.  He  begins  — 

“ Mon  clier  Bertrand,  donne  moi  cent  ecus,  je  te  fais  acquit- 
ter  d’emblee.” 

“ J’ai  pas  d’argent.” 

“He  bicn,  donne  moi  cent  francs.” 

“ Pas  le  sou.” 

“ Tu  n’as  pas  dix  francs?  ” 

“ Pas  iin  hard.” 

“ Alors  donne  moi  tcs  bottes,  je  plaiderai  la  circonstance 
attenuante.” 

The  manner  in  which  Maitre  Macaire  soars  from  the  cent 
ecus  (a  high  point  already)  to  the  sublime  of  the  boots,  is  in  the 
best  comic  style.  In  another  instance  he  pleads  before  a judge, 
and,  mistaking  his  client,  pleads  for  defendant,  instead  of  plain- 
tiff. “ The  infam3^  of  the  plaintilffs  character,  m3"  luds^  renders 
his  testimony"  on  such  a charge  as  this  wholly"  unavailing.” 
“ M.  Macaire,  M.  Macaire,”  cries  the  attorney,  in  a fright, 
“you  are  for  the  plaintiff!”  “This,  my  lords,  is  what  the 
defendant  will  say.  This  is  the  line  of  defence  which  the  oppo- 
site party'  intend  to  pursue  ; as  if  slanders  like  tliese  could  weigh 


170 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


with  an  enlightened  jury,  or  injure  the  spotless  reputation  of 

client ! ” In  this  story  and  expedient  M.  Macaire  has  been 
indebted  to  the  English  bar.  If  there  be  an  occupation  for  the 
English  satirist  in  the  exposing  of  the  cant  and  knavery  of 
the  pretenders  to  religion,  what  room  is  there  for  him  to  lash 
the  infamies  of  the  law  ! On  this  point  the  French  are  babes 
in  iniquity  compared  to  us  — a counsel  prostituting  himself  for 
money  is  a matter  with  us  so  stale,  that  it  is  hardly  food 
for  satire  : which,  to  be  popular,  must  find  some  much  more 
complicated  and  interesting  knaveiy  whereon  to  exercise  its 
skill. 

M.  Macaire  is  more  skilful  in  love  than  in  law,  and  appears 
once  or  twice  in  a very  amiable  light  while  under  the  influence 
of  the  tender  passion.  We  find  him  at  the  head  of  one  of  those 
useful  establishments  unknown  in  our  country  — a Bureau  de 
Mariage : half  a dozen  of  such  places  are  daily  advertised  in 
the  journals  : and  “ une  veuve  de  trente  ans  a}' ant  une  fortune 
de  deux  cent  mille  francs,”  or  “ une  demoiselle  de  quinze  ans, 
jolie,  d’une  famille  tres  distinguee,  qui  possede  trente  mille  livres 
de  rentes,”  — continiiall}^  in  this  kind-hearted  way,  are  offering 
themselves  to  the  public:  sometimes  it  is  a gentleman,  with  a 
“physique  agreable,  — des  talens  de  societe”  — and  a place 
under  Government,  who  makes  a sacrifice  of  himself  in  a similar 
manner.  In  our  little  historical  galler}^  we  find  this  philan- 
tlirppic  anti-Mai thusian  at  the  head  of  an  establishment  of  this 
kind,  introducing  a veiy  meek,  simple-looking  bachelor  to  some 
distinguished  ladies  of  his  connoissance.  “ Let  me  present  you, 
sir,  to  Madame  de  St.  Bertrand”  (it  is  our  old  friend),  “ veuve 
de  la  grande  armee,  et  Mdlle  Eloa  de  Wormspire.  Ces  dames 
brulent  de  I’envie  de  faire  votre  connoissance.  Je  les  ai  invitees 
a diner  chez  vous  ce  soir : vous  nous  menerez  a I’opera,  et  nous 
feroiis  une  petite  partie  d’ecarte.  Tenez  vous  bien,  M.  Gobard  ! 
ces  dames  out  des  projets  sur  \ous  ! ” 

Happ3^  Gobard  ! happ^’  s^^stein,  which  can  thus  bring  the 
])ure  and  loving  together,  and  acts  as  the  best  all}^  of  Hymen  ! 
The  announcement  of  the  rank  and  titles  of  Madame  de  St. 
Bertrand  — “veuve  de  la  grande  armee”* — is  veiy  happy. 
“ La  grande  armee’’’’  has  been  a father  to  more  orphans,  and  a 
husband  to  more  widows,  than  it  ever  made.  Mistresses  of 
cafes^  old  governesses,  keepers  of  boarding-houses,  genteel 
beggars,  and  ladies  of  k)wer  rank  still,  have  this  favorite  pedi- 
gree. They  have  all  had  malheurs  (what  kind  it  is  needless  to 
particularize),  they  are  all  connected  with  the  grand,  homme, 
and  their  fathers  were  all  colonels.  fFliis  title  exactly  answers 


CARICATURES  AND  LITHOGRAPHY. 


171 


to  the  “clergyman’s  daughter”  in  England  — as,  “A  young 
lady,  the  daugiiter  of  a clergyman,  is  desirous  to  teach,”  &c.  ; 
“A  clergyman’s  widow  receives  into  her  house  a few  select,” 
and  so  forth.  “Appeal  to  the  benevolent. — By  a series  of 
unheard-of  calamities,  a young  lady,  daughter  of  a clergyman 
in  the  west  of  England,  has  been  plunged,”  Ac.  &c.  The 
difference  is  curious,  as  indicating  the  standard  of  respecta- 
bility. 

The  male  beggar  of  fashion  is  not  so  well  known  among  us 
as  in  Paris,  where  street-doors  are  open ; six  or  eight  families 
live  in  a house  ; and  the  gentleman  who  earns  his  livelihood  by 
this  profession  can  make  half  a dozen  visits  without  the  trouble 
of  knocking  from  house  to  house,  and  the  pain  of  being  observed 
by  the  whole  street,  while  the  footman  is  examining  him  from 
the  area.  Some  few  may  be  seen  in  England  about  the  inns 
of  court,  where  the  localiH^  is  favorable  (where,  however,  the 
owners  of  the  chambers  are  not  proverbially  soft  of  heart,  so 
that  the  harvest  must  be  poor) ; but  Paris  is  full  of  such  adven- 
turers,— fat,  smooth-tongued,  and  well  dressed,  with  gloves 
and  gilt-headed  canes,  who  would  be  insulted  almost  by  the 
offer  of  silver,  and  expect  your  gold  as  their  right.  Among 
these,  of  course,  our  friend  Robert  plays  his  part ; and  an 
excellent  engraving  represents  him,  snuff-box  in  hand,  advan- 
cing to  an  old  gentleman,  whom,  b^^  his  poodle,  his  powdered 
head,  and  his  drivelling,  stupid  look,  one  knows  to  be  a Carlist 
of  the  old  regime.  “ I beg  pardon,”  says  Rol)ert ; “ is  it  really 
yourself  to  whom  I have  the  honor  of  speaking?”  — “ It  is.” 
“ Do  3^011  take  snuff?”  — “I  thank  3^011.”  - — “ Sir,  I have  had 
misfortunes  — I want  assistance.  I am  a Vendean  of  illustrious 
birth.  You  know  the  family  of  Macairbec  — we  are  of  Brest. 
M3"  grandfather  served  the  King  in  his  galle3’s  ; m3"  father  and 
I belong,  also,  to  the  marine.  Unfortunate  suits  at  law  haAm 
plunged  us  into  difficulties,  and  I do  not  hesitate  to  ask  3^11  for 
the  succor  of  ten  francs.”  — “ Sir,  I never  giA"e  to  those  I don’t 
know.”  — “Right,  sir,  perfectly  right.  Perhaps  3^ou  will  have 
the  kindness  to  lend  me  ten  francs  ? ” 

The  adventures  of  Doctor  Macaire  need  not  be  described, 
because  the  different  degrees  in  quackeiy  wliich  are  taken  by 
that  learned  physician  are  all  well  known  in  England,  where 
we  ha\"e  the  advantage  of  maii3"  higher  degrees  in  the  science, 
which  our  neighbors  know  nothing  about.  We  haA"e  not  Hahne- 
mann, but  we  haAm  his  disciples  ; we  have  not  Broussais,  but 
we  have  the  College  of  Health  ; and  surely  a dose  of  Morrison’s 
pills  is  a sublimer  discoveiy  than  a draught  of  hot  water.  We 


172 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


had  St.  John  Long,  too  — where  is  his  science?  — and  we  are 
credibl}^  informed  that  some  important  cures  have  been  effected 
b^’  the  inspired  dignitaries  of  “ the  church”  in  Newman  Street 
— which,  if  it  continue  to  practise,  will  sadly  interfere  with  the 
profits  of  the  regular  physicians,  and  where  the  miracles  of  the 
Abbe  of  Paris  are  about  to  be  acted  over  again. 

In  speaking  of  M.  Macaire  and  his  adventures,  we  have 
managed  so  entirel^^  to  convince  ourselves  of  the  reality  of  the 
personage,  that  we  have  quite  forgotten  to  speak  of  Messrs. 
Philipon  and  Daumier,  who  are,  the  one  the  inventor,  the  other 
the  designer,  of  the  Macaire  Picture  Gallery.  As  works  of 
esprit^  these  drawings  are  not  more  remarkable  than  the}-  are 
as  works  of  art,  and  we  never  recollect  to  have  seen  a series  of 
sketches  possessing  more  extraordinary  cleverness  and  variety. 
The  countenance  and  figure  of  Macaire  and  the  dear  stupid 
Bertrand  are  preserved,  of  course,  with  great  fidelity  through- 
out ; but  the  admirable  way  in  which  each  fresh  character  is 
conceived,  the  grotesque  appropriateness  of  Robert’s  every  suc- 
cessive attitude  and  gesticulation,  and  the  variety  of  Bertrand’s 
postures  of  invariable  repose,  the  exquisite  fitness  of  all  the 
other  characters,  who  act  their  little  paid  and  disappear  from 
the  scene,  cannot  be  described  on  paper,  or  too  highly  lauded. 
The  figures  are  very  carelessly  drawn  ; but,  if  the  reader  can 
understand  us,  all  the  attitudes  and  limbs  are  perfectly  conceived^ 
and  wonderfully  natural  and  various.  After  pondering  over 
these  drawings  for  some  hours,  as  we  have  been  while  compiling 
this  notice  of  them,  we  have  grown  to  believe  that  the  person- 
ages are  real,  and  the  scenes  remain  imprinted  on  the  brain  as 
if  we  had  absolutely  been  present  at  their  acting.  Perhaps  the 
clever  way  in  which  the  plates  are  colored,  and  the  excellent 
effect  which  is  put  into  each,  may  add  to  this  illusion.  Now, 
in  looking,  for  instance,  at  H.  B.’s  slim  vapory  figures,  they 
^have  struck  ns  as  excellent  likenesses  of  men  and  women,  but 
'no  more : the  bodies  want  spirit,  action,  and  individaality. 
^George  Cruikshank,  as  a humorist,  has  quite  as  much  genius, 
but  he  does  not  know  the  art  of  “ effect”  so  well  as  Monsieur 
Daumier  ; and,  if  we  might  venture  to  give  a word  of  advice  to 
another  humorous  designer,  whose  works  are  extensively  circu- 
lated — the  illustrator  of  “ Pickwick  ” and  “ Nicholas  Nickleby,” 

. — it  would  be  to  study  well  these  caricatures  of  Monsieur 
Daumier  ; who,  though  he  executes  very  carelessly,  knows  very 
well  what  he  would  express,  indicates  perfectly  the  attitude 
and  identity  of  his  figure,  and  is  quite  aware,  beforehand,  of 
the  effect  which  he  intends  to  produce.  The  one  we  should 


CARICATURES  AND  LITHOGRAPHY. 


173 


fancy  to  be  a practised  artist,  talviiig  liis  ease  ; the  other,  a 
young  one,  somewhat  bewildered  : a veiy  clever  one,  however, 
who,  if  he  would  think  more,  and  exaggerate  less,  would  add 
not  a little  to  his  reputation. 

Having  pursued,  all  tlirough  these  remarks,  the  comparison 
between  English  art  and  French  art,  Englisli  and  French  humor, 
manners,  and  morals,  perhaps  we  should  endeavor,  also,  to  write 
an  analytical  essay  on  English  cant  or  humbug,  as  distinguished 
from  French.  It  might  be  shown  that  the  latter  was  more  pictur- 
esque and  startling,  the  former  more  substantial  and  positive. 
It  lias  none  of  the  poetic  llights  of  the  French  genius,  but  ad- 
vances steadily,  and  gains  more  ground  in  the  end  than  its 
sprightlier  compeer.  Hut  such  a discussion  would  cany  us 
tlirough  the  whole  range  of  French  and  English  histoiy,  and 
the  reader  has  probably  read  quite  enough  of  the  subject  in  this 
and  the  foregoing  pages. 

We  shall,  therefore,  say  no  more  of  French  and  English 
caricatures  generally,  or  of  Mr.  Macaire’s  particular  accom- 
jilishments  and  adventures.  Tliey  are  far  better  understood  by 
examining  the  original  pictures,  by  which  Philipon  and  Daumier 
have  illustrated  them,  than  b}^  translations  first  into  print  and 
afterwards  into  English.  The}"  form  a very  curious  and  instruc- 
tive commentary  upon  the  iiresent  state  of  society  in  Paris,  and 
a hundred  years  hence,  when  the  whole  of  this  struggling,  noisy, 
busy,  merry  race  shall  have  exchanged  their  pleasures  or  occu- 
pations for  a quiet  coffin  (and  a tawdry  lying  epitaph)  at  Mont- 
martre, or  Pere  la  Chaise  ; when  the  follies  here  recorded  shall 
have  been  superseded  by  new  ones,  and  the  fools  now  so  active 
shall  have  given  up  the  inheritance  of  the  world  to  their  chil- 
dren : the  latter  will,  at  least,  have  the  advantage  of  knowing, 
intimately  and  exactly,  the  manners  of  life  and  being  of  their 
grandsires,  and  calling  up,  when  they  so  choose  it,  our  ghosts 
from  the  grave,  to  live,  love,  quarrel,  swindle,  suffer,  and, 
sti'uggle  on  blindly  as  of  yore.  And  when  the  amused  specula  1 
tor  shall  have  laughed  sufficiently  at  the  immensity  of  our  follies, 
and  the  paltriness  of  our  aims,  smiled  at  our  exploded  super- 
stitions, wondered  how  tliis  man  should  be  considered  great, 
who  is  now  clean  forgotten  (as  copious  Guthrie  before  men- 
tioned) ; how  this  should  have  been  thought  a patriot  who  is 
but  a knave  spouting  commonplace  ; or  how  that  should  have 
been  dubbed  a philosopher  who  is  but  a dull  fool,  blinking 
solemn,  and  pretending  to  see  in  the  dark  ; when  he  shall  have 
examined  all  these  at  his  leisure,  smiling  in  a pleasant  contempt 


174 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


and  good-humored  superiorit}",  and  thanking  heaven  for  his 
increased  lights,  he  will  shut  the  book,  and  be  a fool  as  his 
fathers  were  before  him. 

It  runs  in  the  blood.  Well  hast  thou  said,  O ragged 
Macaire,  — “ Le  jour  va  passer,  mais  les  badauds  ne  passe=- 

RONT  PAS.” 


I 


LITTLE  POINSINET. 


About  the  }^ear  1760,  there  lived,  at  Paris,  a little  fellow, 
who  was  the  darling  of  all  the  wags  of  his  acquaintance. 
Nature  seemed,  in  the  formation  of  this  little  man,  to  have 
amused  herself,  by  giving  loose  to  half  a hundred  of  her  most 
comical  caprices,  lie  had  some  wit  and  drollery  of  his  own, 
which  sometimes  rendered  his  sallies  very  amusing  ; but,  where 
his  friends  laughed  with  him  once,  they  laughed  at  him  a 
thousand  times,  for  he  had  a fund  of  absurdity  in  himself  that 
was  more  pleasant  than  ull  tlie  wit  in  the  world.  He  was  as 
proud  as  a peacock,  as  wicked  as  an  ape,  and  as  silly  as  a 
goose.  He  did  not  possess  one  single  grain  of  common  sense  ; 
but,  in  revenge,  his  pretensions  were  enormous,  his  ignorance 
vast,  and  his  credulity  more  extensive  still.  From  his  3"outh 
upwards,  he  had  read  nothing  but  the  new  novels,  and  the 
verses  in  the  almanacs,  w^hicli  helped  him  not  a little  in  mak- 
ing, what  he  called,  poetry  of  his  own  ; for,  of  course,  our  little 
hero  was  a poet.  All  the  common  usages  of  life,  all  the  ways 
of  the  world,  and  all  the  customs  of  society,  seemed  to  be  quite 
unknown  to  him  ; add  to  these  good  qualities,  a magnificent 
conceit,  a cowardice  inconceivable,  and  a face  so  irresistibly 
comic,  that  every  one  who  first  beheld  it  was  compelled  to 
burst  out  a-laughing,  and  you  will  have  some  notion  of  this 
strange  little  gentleman.  He  was  very  proud  of  his  voice,  and 
uttered  all  his  sentences  in  the  richest  tragic  tone.  He  was 
little  better  than  a dwarf ; but  he  elevated  his  e}^ebrows,  held 
up  his  neck,  walked  on  the  tips  of  his  toes,  and  gave  himself 
the  airs  of  a giant.  He  had  a little  pair  of  bandy  legs,  which 
seemed  much  too  short  to  support  anything  like  a human  bod}' ; 
but,  by  the  help  of  these  crooked  supporters,  he  thought  he 
•sould  dance  like  a Grace  ; and,  indeed,  fancied  all  the  graces 


176 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


possible  were  to  be  found  in  his  person.  PI  is  goggle  e}^es  were 
always  rolling  about  wildly,  as  if  in  correspondence  with  the 
disorder  of  his  little  brain  ; and  his  countenance  thus  wore  an 
expression  of  perpetual  wonder.  With  such  happ}-  natural  gifts, 
he  not  only  fell  into  all  traps  that  were  laid  for  him,  but  seemed 
almost  to  go  out  of  liis  way  to  seek  them  ; although,  to  be  sure, 
his  friends  did  not  give  him  much  trouble  in  that  search,  for 
they  prepared  hoaxes  for  him  incessantly. 

One  da}^  the  wags  introduced  him  to  a company  of  ladies, 
who,  though  not  countesses  and  princesses  exactly,  took, 
nevertheless,  those  titles  upon  themselves  for  the  nonce  ; and 
were  all,  for  the  same  reason,  violently  smitten  with  Master 
Poinsinet’s  person.  One  of  them,  the  lady  of  the  house,  was 
especially  tender ; and,  seating  him  b}^  her  side  at  supper,  so 
plied  him  with  smiles,  ogles,  and  champagne,  that  our  little  hero 
grew  crazed  with  ecstasy,  and  wild  with  love.  In  the  midst  of 
his  happiness,  a cruel  knock  was  heard  below,  accompanied  by 
quick  loud  talking,  swearing,  and  shuffling  of  feet : you  would 
have  thought  a regiment  was  at  the  door.  “Oh  heavens!” 
cried  the  marchioness,  starting  iip,  and  giving  to  the  hand 
of  Poinsinet  one  parting  squeeze;  “fly  — fly,  my  Poinsinet : 
’tis  the  colonel  — my  husband  1 ” At  this,  each  gentleman  of 
the  pai%  rose,  and,  drawing  his  rapier,  vowed  to  cut  his  way 
through  the  colonel  and  all  his  mousquetaires^  or  die,  if  need 
be,  by  the  side  of  Poinsinet. 

The  little  fellow  was  obliged  to  lug  out  his  sword  too,  and 
went  shuddering  down  stairs,  heartily  repenting  of  his  passion 
for  marchionesses.  When  the  party  arrived  in  the  street,  they 
found,  sure  enough,  a dreadful  company  of  momqiietaires^  as 
they  seemed,  read}^  to  oppose  their  passage.  Swords  crossed, 
— torches  blazed;  and,  with  the  most  dreadful  shouts  and 
imprecations,  the  contending  parties  rushed  upon  one  another ; 
tlie  friends  of  Poinsinet  surrounding  and  supporting  that  little 
warrior,  as  the  French  knights  did  King  Francis  at  Pavia, 
otherwise  the  poor  fellow  certainl3^  would  have  fallen  down  in 
the  gutter  from  fright. 

But  the  combat  was  suddenly  interrupted  ; for  the  neigh- 
bors, who  knew  nothing  of  the  trick  going  on,  and  thought  the 
brawl  was  real,  had  been  screaming  with  all  their  might  for 
the  police,  who  began  about  this  time  to  arrive.  Directly  they 
appeared,  friends  and  enemies  of  Poinsinet  at  once  took  to 
their  heels  ; and,  in  this  part  of  the  transaction,  at  least,  our 
hero  himself  showed  that  he  was  equal  to  the  longest-legged 
grenadier  that  ever  ran  aw'a\'. 


LITTLE  POmsnSTET. 


177 


When,  at  last,  those  little  band}-  legs  of  his  had  borne  him 
safely  to  his  lodgings,  all  Poiiisinet’s  friends  crowded  round 
him,  to  congratulate  him  on  his  escape  and  his  valor. 

“Egad,  how  he  pinked  that  great  red-haired  fellow!”  said 
one. 

“ No  ; did  I?  ” said  Poinsinet. 

“Did  3^ou?  Psha  I don’t  try  to  play  the  modest,  and 
liumbug  us;  3’ou  know  you  did.  1 suppose  3^011  will  sa3g 
next,  that  3^011  were  not  for  three  minutes  point  to  point  with 
Cartentierce  himself,  the  most  dreadful  swordsman  of  the 
army.” 

“ Why,  3’ou  see,”  says  Poinsinet,  quite  delighted,  “ it  was 
so  dark  that  I did  not  know  with  whom  I was  engaged  ; al- 
though, corhleu^  I did  for  one  or  tw^o  of  the  fellows.”  And 
after  a little  more  of  such  conversation,  during  which  he  was 
fully  persuaded  that  he  had  done  for  a dozen  of  the  enemy  at 
least,  Poinsinet  went  to  bed,  his  little  person  trembling  with 
fright  and  pleasure  ; and  he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  of  res- 
cuing ladies,  and  destroying  monsters,  like  a second  Amadis 
de  Gaul. 

When  he  awoke  in  the  morning,  he  found  a partv  of  his 
friends  in  his  room : one  was  examining  his  coat  and  waist- 
coat ; another  was  casting  rnaiiy’^  curious  glances  at  his  inex- 
pressibles. “Look  here!”  said  this  gentleman,  holding  up 
the  garment  to  the  light;  “one- — two  — three  gashes!  T am 
hanged  if  the  cowards  did  not  aim  at  Poinsinet’s  legs  ! There 
are  four  holes  in  the  sw^ord  arm  of  his  coat,  and  seven  have 
gone  right  through  coat  and  waistcoat.  Good  heaven  ! Poin- 
sinet, have  3"Ou  had  a surgeon  to  3'our  wounds?” 

“Wounds!”  said  the  little  man,  springing  up,  “I  don’t 
know  — that  is,  I hope  — that  is  — O Lord  ! O Lord!  I hope 
Pm  not  wounded!”  and,  after  a proper  examination,  he  dis- 
covered he  was  not. 

“Thank  heaven!  thank  heaven!”  said  one  of  the  wags 
( wlio,  indeed,  during  the  slumbers  of  Poinsinet  had  been  occu- 
pied in  making  these  very  holes  through  the  garments  of  that 
individual),  “if  3'ouhave  escaped,  it  is  by  a miracle.  Alas! 
alas  ! all  3'our  enemies  have  not  been  so  luck3x” 

“How!  is  any] )ody  wounded? ” said  Poinsinet. 

“My  dearest  friend,  prepare  yourself;  that  unhapp3^  man 
who  came  to  revenge  his  menaced  honor  — that  gallant  officer 
— that  injured  husband.  Colonel  Count  de  Cartentierce  — ” 
“Well?” 

“Is  NO  more!  he  died  this  morning,  pierced  through  with 

12 


178 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


nineteen  wounds  from  3’our  hand,  and  calling  upon  his  countr}^ 
to  revenge  his  murder.” 

When  this  awful  sentence  was  pronounced,  all  the  auditory 
gave  a pathetic  and  simultaneous  sob  ; and  as  for  Poinsinet,  he 
sank  back  on  his  bed  with  a howl  of  terror,  which  would  have 
melted  a Visigoth  to  tears,  or  to  laughter.  As  soon  as  his 
U'lTor  and  remorse  had,  in  some  degree,  subsided,  his  comrades 
spoke  to  him  of  the  necessity  of  making  his  escape  ; and,  hud- 
dling on  his  clothes,  and  bidding  them  all  a tender  adieu,  he 
set  off,  incontinentl}^  without  his  breakfast,  for  England, 
America,  or  Russia,  not  knowing  exactl}"  which. 

One  of  his  companions  agreed  to  accompany  him  on  a part 
of  this  journe}',  — that  is,  as  far  as  the  barrier  of  St.  Denis, 
which  is,  as  eveiybody  knows,  on  the  high  road  to  Dover ; and 
there,  being  tolerably'  secure,  they  entered  a tavern  for  break- 
fast ; which  meal,  the  last  that  he  ever  was  to  take,  perhaps, 
in  his  native  city,  Poinsinet  was  just  about  to  discuss,  when, 
behold  ! a gentleman  entered  the  apartment  where  Poinsinet 
and  his  friend  were  seated,  and,  drawing  from  his  pocket  a 
paper,  with  “ Au  nom  du  Roy”  flourished  on  the  top,  read 
from  it,  or  rather  from  Poinsinet’s  own  figure,  his  exact  signale- 
ment^  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  arrested  him  in  the 
name  of  the  King,  and  of  the  provost-marshal  of  Paris.  “I 
arrest  you,  sir,”  said  he,  gravel}",  “ with  regret ; 3-011  have  slain, 
with  seventeen  wounds,  in  single  combat.  Colonel  Count  de 
Cartentierce,  one  of  his  Majesty’s  household ; and,  as  his  mur- 
derer, you  fall  under  the  immediate  authority  of  the  provost- 
marshal,  and  die  without  trial  or  benefit  of  clerg}-.” 

You  may  fancy  how  the  poor  little  man’s  appetite  fell  when 
he  lieard  this  speech.  “In  the  provost-marshal’s  hands?” 
said  his  friend  : “ then  it  is  all  over,  indeed  ! When  does  my 
poor  friend  suffer,  sir?” 

“At  half-past  six  o’clock,  the  day  after  to-morrow,”  said 
the  ofiicer,  sitting  down,  and  helping  himself  to  wine.  “But 
stop,”  said  he,  suddenl}’ ; “sure  I can’t  mistake?  Yes  — no 
— yes,  it  is.  M3"  dear  friend,  m3"  dear  Durand!  don’t  3'ou 
recollect  3^0111’  old  schoolfellow,  Antoine?”  And  herewith 
the  officer  flung  himself  into  the  arms  of  Durand,  Poinsinet’s 
comrade,  and  they  performed  a most  affecting  scene  of  friend- 
ship. 

“This  may  be  of  some  service  to  you,”  whispered  Durand 
to  Poinsinet ; and,  after  some  further  parle}",  lie  asked  the  officer 
when  he  was  liound  to  deliver  up  his  prisoner  ; and,  hearing  that 
he  was  not  called  upon  to  appear  at  the  Marshalsea  before  six 


LITTLE  POINSINET. 


179 


o’clock  at  night,  Monsieur  Durand  prevailed  upon  IMonsieur  An- 
toine to  wait  until  that  hour,  and  in  the  meantime  to  allow  his 
prisoner  to  walk  al)out  the  town  in  his  company.  This  request 
was,  with  a little  difficulty,  granted  ; and  poor  Poinsinet  begged 
to  be  carried  to  the  houses  of  Ihs  various  friends,  and  bid  them 
farewell.  Some  were  aware  of  the  trick  that  had  been  played 
upon  him  : others  were  not ; but  the  poor  little  man’s  credulity 
was  so  great,  that  it  was  impossible  to  undeceive  him  ; and  he 
went  from  house  to  house  bewailing  his  fate,  and  followed  b}'  the 
complaisant  marshal’s  officer. 

The  news  of  his  death  he  received  with  much  more  meekness 
than  could  have  been  expected  ; but  what  he  could  not  reconcile 
to  himself  was,  the  idea  of  dissection  afterwards.  ‘AVTiat  can 
they  want  with  me?”  cried  the  poor  wretch,  in  an  unusual  tit 
of  candor.  “ I am  very  small  ami  ugl}^ ; it  would  be  ditferent 
if  I were  a tall  fine-looking  fellow.”  But  he  was  given  to  un- 
derstand that  beaut}^  made  very  little  difierence  to  the  surgeons, 
who,  on  the  contrary,  would,  on  certain  occasions,  prefer  a de- 
formed man  to  a handsome  one  ; for  science  was  much  advanced 
b}^  the  study  of  such  monstrosities.  With  this  reason  Poinsinet 
was  obliged  to  be  content ; and  so  i)aid  his  rounds  of  visits,  and 
repeated  his  dismal  adieux. 

The  officer  of  the  provost-marshal,  however  amusing  Poin- 
sinet’s  woes  might  have  been,  began,  bjAhis  time,  to  grow  very 
weary  of  them,  and  gave  him  more  than  one  opportunity  to  es- 
cape. He  w'ould  stop  at  shop-windows,  loiter  round  corners, 
and  look  up  in  the  sky,  but  all  in  vain  : Poinsinet  would  not  es- 
cape, do  what  the  other  would.  At  length,  luckily,  about  din- 
ner-time, the  officer  met  one  of  Poinsinet’s  friends  and  his  own  : 
and  the  three  agreed  to  dine  at  a tavern,  as  the}'  had  break- 
fasted ; and  here  the  officer,  who  vowed  that  he  had  been  up  for 
five  weeks  incessantly,  fell  suddenly  asleep,  in  the  profoundest 
fatigue  ; and  Poinsinet  was  persuaded,  after  much  hesitation  on 
his  part,  to  take  leave  of  him. 

And  now,  this  danger  overcome,  another  was  to  be  avoided. 
Beyond  a doubt  the  police  w'ere  after  him,  and  how  was  he  to 
avoid  them?  He  must  be  disguised,  of  course  ; and  one  of  his 
friends,  a tall,  gaunt  lawyer’s  clerk,  agreed  to  provide  him  with 
habits. 

8o  little  Poinsinet  dressed  himself  out  in  the  clerk’s  dingy 
black  suit,  of  which  the  knee-breeches  hung  down  to  his  heels, 
and  the  waist  of  the  coat  reached  to  the  calves  of  !iis  legs  ; and, 
furthermore,  he  blacked  his  eyebrows,  and  ^vore  a huge  black 
periwig,  in  which  his  friend  vowed  that  no  one  could  recognize 


180 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


him.  But  the  most  painful  incident,  with  regard  to  the  periwig, 
was,  that  Poinsinet,  whose  solitary  beauty  — if  beaut}^  it  might 
be  called  — was  a head  of  copious,  cuiiing,  yellow  hair,  was 
compelled  to  snip  oif  ev^ery  one  of  liis  golden  locks,  and  to  rub 
the  bristles  with  a black  dye;  ''loi-  if  your  wig  were  to  come 
off,”  said  the  lawyer,  and  3'our  fair  hair  to  tumble  over  your 
shoulders,  every  man  would  know,  or  at  least  suspect  3^011.”  So 
off'  the  locks  were  cut,  and  in  his  black  suit  and  periwig  little 
Poinsinet  went  abroad. 

His  friends  had  their  cue  ; and  when  he  appeared  amongst 
them,  not  one  seemed  to  know  him.  He  was  taken  into  compa- 
nies wliere  his  character  was  discussed  before  him,  and  his  won- 
derful escape  spoken  of.  At  last  he  was  introduced  to  the  very 
officer  of  the  provost-marshal  who  had  taken  him  into  custod3^, 
and  who  told  him  that  he  had  been  dismissed  the  provost’s  ser- 
vice, in  consequence  of  the  escape  of  the  prisoner.  Now,  for 
the  first  time,  poor  Poinsinet  thought  himself  tolerabl3^  safe,  and 
blessed  his  kind  friends  who  had  procured  for  him  such  a com- 
plete disguise.  How  this  affair  ended  1 know  not, — whether 
some  new  lie  was  coined  to  account  for  his  release,  or  whether 
he  was  simply  told  that  he  had  been  hoaxed  : it  mattered  little  ; 
for  the  little  man  was  quite  as  read3”  to  be  hoaxed  the  next  da3’. 

Poinsinet  was  one  day  invited  to  dine  with  one  of  the  servants 
of  the  Tuileries  ; and,  before  his  arrival,  a person  in  company 
had  been  decorated  with  a knot  of  lace  and  a gold  ke3’ , such  as 
chamberlains  wear  ; he  was  introduced  to  Poinsinet  as  the  Count 
de  Truchses,  chamberlain  to  the  King  of  Prussia.  After  dinner 
the  conversation  fell  upon  the  Count’s  visit  to  Paris  ; when  his 
Excellency,  with  a m3^sterious  air,  vowed  that  he  had  01113^  come 
for  pleasure.  “ It  is  mighty  well,”  said  a third  person,  “ and, 
of  course,  we  can’t  cross-question  your  lordship  too  closel3^ ; ” 
but  at  the  same  time  it  was  hinted  to  Poinsinet  that  a person  of 
such  consequence  did  not  travel  for  nothing^  with  which  opinion 
Poinsinet  solemnly  agreed  ; and,  indeed,  it  was  borne  out  by  a 
subsequent  declaration  of  the  Count,  who  condescended,  at  last, 
to  tell  the  compan3q  in  confidence,  that  he  had  a mission,  and  a 
most  important  one  — to  find,  namely,  among  the  literaiy  men 
of  France,  a governor  for  the  Prince  Ro3ml  of  Prussia.  The 
company  seemed  astonished  that  the  King  had  not  made  choice 
of  Voltaire  or  D’Alembert,  and  mentioned  a dozen  other  distin- 
guished men  who  might  be  competent  to  this  important  dut3^ ; 
but  the  Count,  as  ma3^  be  imagined,  found  objections  to  eveiy 
one  of  them  ; and,  at  last,  one  of  the  guests  said,  that,  if  his 
Prussian  Majesty  was  not  particular  as  to  age,  he  knew  a person 


LITTLE  POINSINET. 


181 


more  fitted  for  the  place  than  any  other  who  could  be  found,  — - 
his  honorable  friend,  M.  Foinsinet,  was  the  individual  to  whom 
lie  alluded. 

Good  heavens  ! ” cried  the  Count,  “is  it  possible  that  the 
celebrated  Foinsinet  would  take  such  a place?  I would  give 
the  world  to  see  him?'’  And  yon  may  fancy  how  Foinsinet 
simpered  and  blushed  when  the  introduction  immediately'  took 
place. 

The  Count  protested  to  him  that  the  King  would  be  charmed 
to  know  him  ; and  added,  that  one  of  his  operas  (for  it  must  be 
told  that  onr  little  friend  was  a vaudeville-maker  by  trayle)  had 
been  acted  seven-and-twenty  times  at  the  theatre  at  Fotsdam. 
His  Excellency  then  detailed  to  him  all  the  honors  and  privi- 
leges wliich  the  governor  of  the  Frince  Royal  might  expect ; 
and  all  the  guests  encouraged  the  little  man’s  vanity,  by  asking 
him  for  his  protection  and  favor.  In  a short  time  onr  hero 
grew  so  inliated  with  pride  and  vanity,  tl\at  he  wns  for  patron- 
izing the  chamberlain  himself,  who  proceeded  to  infoiun  him 
that  he  was  furnished  with  all  the  necessary  powers  by'  his 
sovereign,  who  had  specially  enjoined  him  to  confer  upon  the 
future  governor  of  his  son  the  royml  order  of  the  Black  Eagle. 

Foinsinet,  delighted,  was  ordered  to  kneel  down  ; and  the 
Count  produced  a large  yellow  ribbon,  which  he  hung  over  his 
shoulder,  and  which  was,  he  declared,  the  grand  cordon  of  the 
order.  You  must  fancy'  Foinsinet’s  face,  and  excessive  delight 
at  this  ; for  as  for  describing  them,  nobody  can.  For  four-and- 
twenty  hours  the  happy  chevalier  paraded  through  Faris  with 
this  flaring  yellow  ribbon  ; and  he  was  not  undeceived  until  his 
friends  had  another  trick  in  store  for.  him. 

He  dined  one  day'  in  the  company  of  a man  who  understood 
a little  of  the  noble  art  of  conjuring,  and  performed  some  clever 
tricks  on  the  cards.  Foinsinet’s  organ  of  wonder  was  enor- 
mous ; he  looked  on  with  the  gravity  and  awe  of  a child,  and 
thonoiit  the  man’s  tricks  sheer  miracles.  It  wanted  no  more  to 
set  his  companions  to  work. 

“ Who  is  this  wonderful  man?”  said  he  to  his  neighbor. 

“Why,”  said  the  other,  mysteriously,  “one  hardly  knows 
who  he  is  ; or,  at  least,  one  does  not  like  to  say'  to  such  an  in- 
discreet fellow  as  y’on  are.”  Foinsinet  at  once  swore  to  be 
secret.  “Well,  then,”  said  his  friend,  “von  will  hear  that 
man  — that  wonderful  man — called  by'  a name  which  is  not 
his  : his  real  name  is  Acosta  : he  is  a Fortnguese  Jew,  a Rosi- 
crucian,  and  Cabalist  of  the  first  order,  and  compelled  to  leave 
Lisbon  for  fear  of  the  Inquisition.  He  performs  here,  as  you 


182 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


see,  some  extraordinaiy  things,  occasionally  ; but  the  master 
of  the  house,  who  loves  him  excessively,  would  not,  for  the 
world,  that  his  name  should  be  made  public.” 

“Ah.  bah!”  said  Poinsinet,  who  affected  the  hel  esprit; 
“ you  don’t  mean  to  say  that  you  believe  in  magic,  and  ca- 
balas, and  such  trash  ? ” 

“ Do  I not?  You  shall  judge  for  yourself.”  And,  accord- 
ingly, Poinsinet  was  presented  to  the  magician,  who  pretended 
to  take  a vast  liking  for  him,  and  declared  that  he  saw  in  him 
certain  marks  which  would  infallibl}'  lead  him  to  great  eminence 
in  the  magic  art,  if  he  chose  to  stud}'  it. 

Dinner  was  served,  and  Poinsinet  placed  by  the  side  of  the 
miracle-worker,  who  became  very  confidential  with  him,  and 
promised  him — a}',  before  dinner  was  over  — a remarkable 
instance  of  his  power.  Nobod}^  on  this  occasion,  ventured  to 
cut  a single  joke  against  poor  Poinsinet ; nor  could  he  fancy 
that  any  trick  was  intended  against  him,  for  the  demeanor  of 
the  society  towards  him  was  perfectly  grave  and  respectful, 
and  the  conversation  serious.  On  a sudden,  however,  some- 
body exclaimed,  “Where  is  Poinsinet?  Did  any  one  see  him 
leave  the  room  ? ” 

All  the  company  exclaimed  how  singular  the  disappearance 
was  ; and  Poinsinet  Inmself,  growing  alarmed,  turned  round  to 
his  neighbor,  and  was  about  to  explain. 

“ liusli ! ” said  the  magician,  in  a whisper;  “ I told  you 
that  you  should  see  what  I could  do.  I have  made  you  invisible  ; 
be  quiet,  and  you  shall  see  some  more  tricks  that  1 shall  play 
with  these  fellows.” 

Poinsinet  remained  then  silent,  and  listened  to  his  neigh- 
bors, who  agreed,  at  last,  that  he  was  a quiet,  orderly  person- 
age, and  had  left  the  table  earl}',  being  unwilling  to  drink  too 
much.  Presently  they  ceased  to  talk  about  him,  and  resumed 
their  conversation  upon  other  matters. 

At  lirst  it  was  very  quiet  and  grave,  but  the  master  of  the 
house  brought  back  the  talk  to  the  subject  of  Poinsinet,  and 
uttered  all  sorts  of  abuse  concerning  him.  He  begged  the 
gentleman,  who  had  introduced  such  a little  scamp  into  his 
house,  to  bring  him  thither  no  more  : whereupon  the  other  took 
up,  warmly,  Poinsinet’s  defence  ; declared  that  he  was  a man  of 
the  greatest  merit,  frequenting  the  best  society,  and  remarkable 
for  hi^  talents  as  well  as  his  virtues. 

“ Ah  1 ” said  Poinsinet  to  the  magician,  quite  charmed  at 
what  he  heard,  “ how  ever  shall  I thank  you,  my  dear  sir,  for 
thus  showing  me  who  my  true  friends  are  ? ” 


LITTLE  POIXSTXET. 


183 


The  magician  promised  him  still  further  favors  in  prospect ; 
and  told  him  to  look  out  now,  for  he  was  about  to  throw  all 
the  coinpaii}'  into  a temporaiy  fit  of  madness,  which,  no  doubt, 
would  be  veiy  amusing. 

In  consequence,  all  the  com[)anv,  who  had  heard  eveiy  syl- 
lable of  the  conversation,  began  to  perform  the  most  extraor- 
dinaiy  antics,  mucli  to  the  delight  of  Toinsinet.  One  asked  a 
nonsensical  question,  and  the  other  delivered  an  answer  not  at 
all  to  the  purpose.  If  a man  asked  lor  a drink,  they  poured 
him  out  a pepper-box  or  a napkin  : they  took  a pinch  of  snuff, 
and  swore  it  was  excellent  wine  ; and  vowed  that  the  bread  was 
the  most  delicious  mutton  ever  tasted.  The  little  man  was 
delighted. 

^^Ah!”  said  he,  “these  fellows  are  prettih’  punished  for 
their  rascally  backbiting  of  me  ! ” 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  the  host,  “ I shall  now  give  you  some 
celebrated  champagne,”  and  he  poured  out  to  each  a glass  of 
water. 

“ Good  heavens  ! ” said  one,  spitting  it  out,  with  the  most 
horrible  grimace,  “ where  did  3'ou  get  this  detestable  claret?  ” 

“Ah,  faugh!”  said  a second,  ^^1  never  tasted  such  vile 
corked  burgund)’  in  all  my  days  ! ” and  he  threw  the  glass  of 
water  into  Poinsinet’s  face,  as  did  half  a dozen  of  the  other 
guests,  drenching  the  poor  wretch  to  the  skin.  To  complete 
this  pleasant  illusion,  two  of  the  guests  fell  to  boxing  across 
I^oinsinet,  who  received  a number  of  the  blows,  and  received 
them  with  the  patience  of  a fakir,  feeling  himself  more  flattered 
1y  the  precious  privilege  of  beholding  this  scene  invisible,  than 
hurt  by  the  blows  and  buffets  which  the  mad  company  bestowed 
upon  him. 

The  fame  of  this  adventure  spread  quicklv  over  Paris,  and 
all  the  world  longed  to  have  at  their  houses  the  representation 
of  Poiminet  the  Invisible.  The  servants  and  the  whole  compaiiy 
msed  to  be  put  up  to  the  trick  ; and  Poinsinet,  vdio  believed  in 
his  invisibility  as  much  as  he  did  in  his  existence,  went  about 
with  his  friend  and  protector  the  magician.  People,  of  course, 
never  pretended  to  see  him,  and  would  very  often  not  talk  of 
him  at  all  for  some  time,  l)ut  hold  sober  conversation  about 
anvthing  else  in  the  world.  When  dinner  was  served,  of  course 
there  was  no  cover  laid  for  Poinsinet,  who  carried  about  a little 
stool,  on  which  he  sat  b}^  the  side  of  the  magician,  and  always 
ate  off  his  plate.  Everyl)ody  v/as  astonished  at  the  magician’s 
appetite  and  at  the  quantit}^  of  v/ine  he'  drank  ; as  for  little 
Poinsinet,  he  never  once  suspected  aiy’  trick,  and  had  such  a 


184 


THE  PAKIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


confidence  in  his  magician,  that,  I do  believe,  if  the  latter  had 
told  him  to  fling  himself  out  of  window,  he  would  have  done  so, 
without  the  slightest  trepidation. 

Among  other  m3’stifications  in  which  the  Portuguese  en- 
chanter plunged  him,  was  one  which  used  to  aflford  alwa^’s  a 
good  deal  of  amusement.  He  informed  Poinsinet,  with  great 
in3’steiy,  that  he  was  not  himself ; he  was  not,  that  is  to  sa3’, 
that  ugl3^,  deformed  little  monster,  called  Poinsinet ; but  that 
his  birth  was  most  illustrious,  and  his  real  name  Polycarte. 
He  was,  in  fact,  the  t>oii  of  a celebrated  magician  ; but  other 
magicians,  enemies  of  his  father,  had  changed  him  in  his  cradle, 
altering  his  features  into  their  present  hideous  shape,  in  order 
that  a sill3'  old  fellow,  called  Poinsinet,  might  take  him  to  be 
his  own  son,  which  little  monster  the  magician  had  likewise 
spirited  awa3’. 

The  poor  wi’etch  was  sadl3"  cast  down  at  this  ; for  he  tried 
to  fanc3’  that  his  person  was  agreeable  to  the  ladies,  of  whom 
he  was  one  of  the  warmest  little  admirers  possible ; and  to 
console  him  somewhat,  the  magician  told  him  that  his  real 
shape  was  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  as  soon  as  he  should  ap- 
pear in  it,  all  the  beauties  in  Paris  would  be  at  his  feet.  But 
how  to  regain  it?  Oh,  for  one  minute  of  that  beaut3" ! ” cried 
the  little  man  ; what  would  he  not  give  to  appear  under  that 
enchanting  form  ! ” The  magician  hereupon  waved  his  stick 
over  his  head,  [)ronounced  some  awful  magical  words,  and 
twisted  him  round  three  times  ; at  the  third  twist,  the  men  in 
compaiy'  seemed  struck  with  astonishment  and  en\y,  the  ladies 
clasped  their  hands,  and  some  of  them  kissed  his.  Everybody 
declared  his  beauty  to  be  supernatural. 

Poinsinet,  enclnanted,  rushed  to  a glass.  “ Fool ! ” said  the 
magician  ; ‘‘do  you  suppose  that  you  can  see  the  change?  My 
])Ower  to  render  you  invisible,  beautiful,  or  ten  times  more 
hideous  even  than  von  are,  extends  011I3'  to  others,  not  to  3'^^^* 
lYou  may  look  a thousand  times  in  the  glass,  and  you  will  only 
see  those  deformed  limbs  and  disgusting  features  with  which 
devilish  malice  has  disguised  3"0u.’’  Poor  little  Poinsinet 
looked,  and  came  back  in  tears.’  “’But,”  resumed  the  magi- 
cian,'-— “ha,  ha,  ha!  — 1 know  a wa3"  in  which  to  disappoint 
the  machinations  of  these  fiendish  magi.” 

“Oh,  mv  benefactor!  — m3*  great  master!  — for  heaven’s 
sake  tell  it ! ” gasped  Poinsinet. 

“Look  you— it  is  this.  A prey  to  enchantment  and 
demoniac  art  all  3'our  life  long,  you  have  lived  until  your 
present  age  perfectl3*  satisfied ; na3*,  absolutely^  vain  of  a 


LITTLE  POINSINET.  185 

[jersoii  the  most  singularly  hideous  that  ever  walked  the 
earth ! ” 

‘‘  /s  it?  ” whispered  Poinsiiiet.  “ Indeed  and  indeed  I didn’t 
think  it  so  bad  ! ” 

“He  acknowledges  it!  he  acknowledges  it  I”  roared  the 
magician.  “ AVh-eteh,  dotard,  owl,  mole,  miserable  buzzard! 
I have  no  reason  to  tell  thee  now  that  th}'  Ibi-m  is  monstrous, 
tliat  children  cry,  that  cowards  turn  [)ale,  that  teeming  matrons 
shudder  to  behold  it.  It  is  not  thy  lault  tliat  thou  art  thus 
ungainlv : but  wherefore  so  blind  ? wherefore  so  conceited  of 
tli3'self ! 1 tell  thee,  Poiiisinet,  that  over  every  fresh  instance 

of  thy  vanity  tlie  hostile  enchanters  rejoice  and  triumph.  As 
long  as  thou  art  blindly  satislied  with  th^'self ; as  long  as  thou 
pretendest,  in  thy  present  odious  shape,  to  win  the  love  of 
aught  above  a negress ; nay,  further  still,  until  thou  hast 
learned  to  regard  that  face,  as  others  do,  with  the  most  intol- 
erable horror  and  disgust,  to  aljuse  it  when  thou  seest  it,  to 
despise  it,  in  short,  and  treat  that  miserable  disguise  in  which 
the  enchanters  have  wrapped  thee  with  the  strongest  hatred 
and  scorn,  so  long  art  thou  destined  to  wear  it.” 

Such  speeches  as  these,  continuall}'  repeated,  caused  Poin- 
sinet  to  be  full}’  convinced  of  his  ugliness  ; he  used  to  go  about 
in  companies,  and  take  every  opportunity  of  inveighing  against 
himself;  he  made  verses  and  epigrams  against  himself;  he 
talked  about  “that  dwarf,  Poinsinet ; ” “that  buffoon,  Poiii- 
sinet; ” “ that"  conceited,  hump-backed  Poinsinet;”  and  he 
would  spend  hours  before  the  glass,  abusing  his  own  face  as 
he  saw  it  rehected  there,  and  vowing  that  he  grew  handsomer 
at  every  fresh  epithet  that  he  uttered. 

Of  course  the  wags,  from  time  to  time,  used  to  give  him 
every  possible  encouragement,  and  declared  that  since  this  ex- 
ercise, his  person  was  amazingly  improved.  The  ladies,  too, 
began  to  be  so  excessively  fond  of  him,  that  the  little  fellow 
was  obliged  to  caution  them  at  last  — for  the  good,  as  he  said, 
of  society ; he  recommended  them  to  draw  lots,  for  he  could 
not  gratif}'  them  all ; but  promised  when  his  metamorphosis 
was  complete,  that  the  one  chosen  should  become  the  happy 
Mrs.  Poinsinet ; or,  to  speak  more  correctly^  Mrs.  Polycarte. 

I am  sorry  to  say,  however,  that,  on  the  score  of  gallantry, 
Poinsinet  was  never  quite  convinced  of  the  hideousness  of  his 
appearance.  He  had  a number  of  adventures,  accordingly, 
with  the  ladies,  but  strange  to  say,  the  husbands  or  fathers 
were  always  interrupting  him.  On  one  occasion  he  was  made 
to  pass  the  night  in  a slipper-bath  full  of  water ; where,  ah 


iS6  THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 

though  he  bad  all  his  cloches  on,  he  declared  that  he  nearly 
caught  his  death  of  cold.  Another  night,  in  revenge j the  poor 
fellow 

“ dans  le  simple  appareil 

D’une  beaute,  qu’o/i  vient  d’arracher  au  sommeil,” 

spent  a number  of  hours  contemplating  the  beauty  of  the  moon 
on  the  tiles.  These  adventures  are  pretty  numerous  in  the 
memoirs  of  M.  Poinsinet ; but  the  fact  is,  that  people  in  France 
were  a great  deal  more  philosophical  in  those  da}’s  than  the 
English  are  now,  so  that  Poinsinet’s  loves  must  be  passed  over, 
as  not  being  to  our  taste.  His  magician  w^as  a great  diver, 
and  told  Poinsinet  the  most  wonderful  tales  of  his  two  min- 
utes’ absence  under  water.  These  two  minutes,  he  said,  lasted 
through  a year,  at  least,  which  he  spent  in  the  company  of  a 
naiad,  more  beautiful  than  Venus,  in  a palace  more  splendid  than 
even  Versailles.  Fired  b}' the  description,  Poinsinet  used  to  dip, 
and  dip,  but  he  never  was  known  to  make  an}^  mermaid  ac- 
quaintances, although  he  fully  believed  that  one  day  he  should 
line!  such. 

The  invisible  joke  was  brought  to  an  end  by  Poinsinet’s  too 
great  reliance  on  it ; for  being,  as  we  have  said,  of  a very  ten- 
der and  sanguine  disposition,  he  one  da}"  fell  in  love  with  a 
lady  in  whose  company  he  dined,  and  whom  he  actuall}^  pro- 
posed to  embrace  ; but  the  fair  lady,  in  the  hurry  of  the  mo- 
ment, forgot  to  act  up  to  the  joke  ; and  instead  of  receiving 
Poinsinet’s  salute  with  calmness,  grew  indignant,  called  him  an 
impudent  little  scoundrel,  and  lent  him  a sound  box  on  the  ear. 
With  this  slaj)  the  invisibility  of  Poinsinet  disappeared,  the 
gnomes  and  genii  left  him,  and  he  settled  down  into  common  life 
again,  and  was  hoaxed  only  by  vulgar  means. 

A A"ast  number  of  pages  might  be  filled  with  narratives  of 
the  tricks  that  wmre  played  upon  him  ; but  the}"  resemble  each 
other  a good  deal,  as  may  be  imagined,  and  the  chief  point 
remarkable  about  them  is  the  wondrous  faith  of  Poinsinet. 
After  being  introduced  to  the  Prussian  ambassador  at  the  Tuile- 
ries,  he  was  presented  to  tlie  Turkish  envoy  at  the  Place  Ven- 
dome,  who  recei\Td  liiin  in  state,  surrounded  by  the  officers  of 
his  establishment,  all  dressed  in  the  smartest  dresses  that  the 
wardrobe  of  the  Opera  Comique  could  furnish. 

As  the  greatest  honor  that  could  be  done  to  him,  Poinsinet 
was  invited  to  eat,  and  a tray  was  produced,  on  which  was  a 
delicate  dish  prepared  in  the  Turkish  manner.  This  consisted 
of  a reasonable  quantity  of  mustard,  salt,  cinnamon  and  ginger, 


LITTLE  POINSIN'ET. 


187 


nutmegs  and  cloves,  with  a couple  of  tablespoonfuls  of  ca3'enne 
pepper,  to  give  the  whole  a flavor  ; ai>d  Poiiisiiiet’s  countenance 
may  be  imagined  when  he  introduced  into  his  mouth  a quantity 
of  this  exquisite  compound. 

“ The  best  of  the  joke  was,”  says  flie  author  who  records  so 
man}’  of  the  pitiless  tricks  practised  upon  poor  Poinsinet,  “ that 
the  little  man  used  to  laugh  at  them  afterwards  himself  with 
perfect  good  humor ; and  lived  in  the  daily  ho[)e  that,  from 
being  the  sufferer,  he  should  become  tie  agent  in  these  hoaxes, 
and  do  to  others  as  he  had  been  done  by.”  Passing,  therefore, 
one  day,  on  the  Pont  Neuf,  with  a friend,  who  had  been  one 
of  the  greatest  performers,  the  latter  said  to  him,  “Poinsinet, 
my  good  fellow,  thou  hast  suffered  enough;-  and  thy  sufferings 
have  made  thee  so  wise  and  cunning,  that  thou  art  worthy  of 
entering  among  the  initiated,  and  hoaxing  in  thy  turn.”  Poin- 
sinet was  charmed  ; he  asked  when  he  should  be  initiated,  and 
how?  It  was  told  him  that  a moment  would  suflice,  and  that 
the  ceremony  might  be  performed  on  the  spot . At  this  news, 
and  according  to  order,  Poinsinet  flung  himself  straightway  on 
his  knees  in  the  kennel ; and  the  other,  dj-awi)ig  his  sword, 
solemnly  initiated  him  into  the  sacred  order  of  jokers.  From 
tliat  day  the  little  man  believed  himself  received  into  the  so- 
ciety ; and  to  this  having  brought  him,  let  ua  bid  him  resuoct' 
ful  adieu. 


THE  HEVIL’S  WAGER 


It  was  the  hour  of  the  night  when  there  be  none  stirring 
save  cliurch^’ar'.l  ghosts  — when  all  doors  are  closed  except  the 
gates  of  graves,  arid  all  e}'es  shut  but  the  e}’es  of  wicked  men. 

When  there  is  no  sound  on  the  earth  except  the  ticking  of 
the  grasshopper,  or  the  croaking  of  obscene  frogs  in  the  poole. 

And  no  light  except  that  of  the  blinking  starres,  and  the 
wicked  and  devilish  wills-o’-the-wisp,  as  they  gambol  among 
the  marshes,  and  lead  good  men  astraye. 

When  there  is  nothing  moving  in  heaven  except  the  owle, 
as  he  liappeth  along  lazily  ; or  the  magician,  as  he  rides  on  his 
infernal  broomsticke,  whistling  through  the  aire  like  the  arrowes 
of  a Yorkshire  archere. 

It  was  at  this  hour  (namely,  at  twelve  o’clock  of  the  night,) 
that  two  beings  went  winging  through  the  black  clouds,  and 
holding  converse  with  each  other. 

Now  the  first  was  Mercurius,  the  messenger,  not  of  gods 
(as  the  heathens  feigned) , but  of  daemons ; and  the  second, 
with  whom  he  held  company,  was  the  soul  of  Sir  Roger  de  Rollo, 
the  brave  knight.  Sir  Roger  was  Count  of  Chauchign}^  in 
Champagne  ; Seigneur  of  Santerre,  Viilacerf  and  auitre  lieux. 
But  the  great  die  as  well  as  the  humble  ; and  nothing  remained 
of  brave  Rodger  now,  but  his  coffin  and  his  deathless  soul. 

And  Mercurius,  in  order  to  keep  fast  the  soul,  his  companion, 
had  bound  him  round  the  neck  with  his  tail ; which,  when  the 
soul  was  stubborn,  he  would  draw  so  tight  as  to  strangle  him 
wellnigh,  sticking  into  him  the  barbed  point  thereof ; whereat 
the  poor  soul.  Sir  Rollo,  would  groan  and  roar  lustily. 


THE  DEVIL’S  WAGER. 


189 


“It  is  hard,”  said  the  poor  Sir  Rollo,  as  they  went  gliding 
tdirough  the  clouds,  “ tJiat  1 should  thus  be  condemned  for  ever, 
and  all  for  want  of  a single  ave.” 

“ How,  Sir  Soul?”  said  the  dminon.  “ You  were  on  earth 
so  wicked,  tliat  not  one,  or  a million  of  aves,  could  sullice  to 
keep  Irom  hell-llame  a creature  like  thee  ; but  cheer  up  and  be 
merry  ; thou  wilt  be  but  a subject  ol’our  lord  the  Devil,  as  am 
I ; and,  pci‘lia[)s,  thou  will  be  advanced  to  posts  of  honor,  as 
am  1 also  : ” and  to  show  his  authoritie,  he  lashed  with  his  tail 
the  ribbes  of  the  wretched  Rollo. 

“Nevertheless,  sinner  as  1 am,  one  more  ave  would  have 
saved  me  ; for  mv  sister,  who  was  Abbess  of  St.  Maiy  of 
Chauchiguy,  did  so  })revail,  by  her  prayer  and  good  works,  for 
my  lost  ami  wretched  soul,  that  eveiy  day  1 felt  the  pains  of 
purgatory  decrease  ; the  pitchforks  which,  on  my  first  entry, 
had  never  ceased  to  vex  and  torment  m}’  poor  carcass,  were 
now  not  ap})lied  above  once  a week  ; the  roasting  had  ceased, 
the  boiling  had  discontinued  ; only  a certain  warmth  was  kept 
up,  to  remind  me  of  my  situation.” 

“ A gentle  stewe,”  said  the  dccmon. 

“ Yea,  truly,  1 was  but  in  a stew,  and  all  from  the  effects 
of  the  prayers  of  my  blessed  sister.  Hut  yesterday,  he  who 
watched  me  in  purgatory  told  me,  that  yet  another  praj^er  from 
my  sister,  and  my  bonds  should  be  unloosed,  and  1,  who  am 
now  a devil,  should  have  been  a blessed  angel.” 

“ And  the  other  ave?”  said  the  daemon. 

“ She  died,  sir  — my  sister  died  — death  choked  her  in  the 
middle  of  the  prayer.”  And  hereat  the  wretched  spirit  began 
to  w^eepe  and  w^hine  piteously  ; his  salt  tears  falling  over  his 
beard,  and  scalding  the  tail  of  Mercurius  the  devil. 

“It  is,  in  truth,  a hard  case,”  said  the  daemon;  “but  I 
know  of  no  remed}^  save  patience,  and  for  that  you  wdll  have 
an  excellent  opportunity  in  your  lodgings  below.” 

“ But  I have  relations,”  said  the  Earl ; “ 1113"  kinsman  Ran- 
dal, W'ho  has  inherited  my  lands,  wall  he  not  say  a pra3"er  for 
his  uncle  ? ” 

“ I’hou  didst  hate  and  oppress  him  wdien  living.” 

“ It  is  true  ; but  an  ave  is  not  much  ; his  sister,  my  niece, 
Matilda  — ” 

“ You  shut  her  in  a convent,  and  hanged  her  lover.” 

“ Had  I not  reason?  besides,  has  she  not  others?” 

“ A dozen,  without  doubt.” 

“And  my  brother,  the  prior?” 

liege  subject  of  m}^  lord  the  Devil:  he  never  opens 


190 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


his  mouth,  except  to  utter  an  oath,  or  to  swallow  a cup  of 
wine.” 

“ And  3^et,  if  but  one  of  these  would  but  sa}'  an  aA^e  for  me, 
I should  be  saved.” 

“ Aves  with  them  are  rarse  aves,”  replied  Mercurius,  wag- 
ging his  tail  right  waggishl}^ ; “ and,  what  is  more,  I will  lay 
thee  an}"  wager  that  not  one  of  these  will  say  a pra}^er  to  save 
thee.” 

“I  would  wager  willingly,”  responded  he  of  Chauchigri}" ; 
“ but  what  has  a poor  soul  like  me  to  stake?” 

“ EA"eiy  evening,  after  the  day’s  roasting,  my  lord  Satan 
giveth  a cup  of  cold  water  to  his  servants  ; I will  bet  thee  thy 
water  for  a year,  that  none  of  the  three  will  pray  for  thee.” 

“ Done  ! ” said  Rollo. 

“ Done  ! ” said  the  daemon  ; “ and  here,  if  I mistake  not,  is 
thy  castle  of  Chanchign}’.” 

Indeed,  it  was  true.  The  soul,  on  looking  down,  perceived 
the  tall  towers,  the  courts,  the  stables,  and  the  fair  gardens  of 
the  castle.  Although  it  was  past  midnight,  there  was  a blaze 
of  light  in  the  banqueting-hall,  and  a lamp  burning  in  the  open 
window  of  the  Lady  Matilda. 

“ With  whom  shall  we  begin?”  said  the  daemon  : ‘‘  with  the 
baron  or  the  lady  ? ” 

“ With  the  lady,  if  you  will.” 

“Be  it  so  ; her  window  is  open,  let  us  enter.” 

So  they  descended,  and  entered  silently  into  Matilda’s 
chamber. 

The  young  lad}’’s  e}'es  were  fixed  so  intentl}"  on  a little  clock, 
that  it  was  no  wonder  that  she  did  not  perceive  the  entrance  of 
her  two  visitors.  Her  fair  cheek  rested  on  her  white  arm, 
and  her  white  arm  on  the  cushion  of  a great  chair  in  Avhich  she 
sat,  pleasantly  supported  by  sweet  thoughts  and  swan’s  down ; 
a lute  was  at  her  side,  and  a book  of  prayers  lay  under  the  table 
(for  pietv  is  always  modest).  Like  the  amorous  Alexander, 
she  sighed  and  looked  (at  the  clock)  — and  sighed  for  ten 
minutes  or  more,  when  she  softl}^  breathed  the  word  “Ed- 
ward ! ” 

At  this  the  soul  of  the  Baron  was  wroth.  “ The  jade  is  at 
her  old  pranks,”  said  he  to  the  devil ; and  then  addressing 
Matilda:  “ I pray  thee,  sweet  niece,  turn  thy  thoughts  for  a 
moment  from  that  villanous  page,  Edward,  and  give  them  to 
thine  affectionate  uncle.” 

When  she  heard  the  voice,  and  saw  the  aAvful  apparition  of 


THE  DEVIL’S  WAGER. 


191 


her  uncle  (for  a }"car’s  sojourn  in  purgatoiy  had  not  increased 
the  comeliness  of  his  appearance),  she  started,  screamed,  and 
of  course  fainted. 

But  the  devil  Mercurius  soon  restored  her  to  herself. 
“ What’s  o’clock?”  said  she,  as  soon  as  she  had  recovered  from 
her  fit:  “is  he  come?” 

“ Not  tly  lover,  Maude,  but  thine  uncle  — that  is,  his  soul. 
For  the  love  of  heaven,  listen  to  me  : I have  been  frying  in  pur- 
gatory for  a year  past,  and  should  have  been  in  heaven  but  for 
the  want  of  a single  ave.” 

“ 1 will  sa}’  it  for  thee  to-morrow,  uncle.” 

“To-nigiit,  or  never.” 

“Well,  to-night  be  it : ” and  she  requested  the  devil  Mer- 
curius  to  give  her  the  pi-ayer-book  IVom  under  the  table  ; but  he 
had  no  sooner  touched  the  holy  book  than  he  dropped  it  with  a 
shriek  and  a yell.  “ It  was  hotter,”  he  sai<l,  “ than  his  master 
Sir  Lucifer’s  own  particular  i)itchfork.”  And  the  lad}^  was  forced 
to  begin  her  ave  without  the  aid  of  her  missal. 

At  the  commencement  of  her  devotions  the  dminon  retired, 
and  carried  with  him  the  anxious  soul  of  poor  Sir  Roger  de 
Rollo. 

The  lad}'  knelt  down  — she  sighed  deeply  ; she  looked  again 
at  the  clock,  and  began  — 

“ Ave  Maria.” 

When  a lute  was  heard  under  the  window,  and  a sweet  voice 
singing  — 

“ Hark  ! ” said  Matilda. 


“ Now  the  toils  of  day  are  over, 

And  the  sun  liatli  sunk  to  rest, 
Seeking,  like  a fiery  lover, 

The  bosom  of  the  blushing  west — 


“ The  faithful  night  keeps  watch  and  ward, 

Raising  the  moon,  her  silver  shield. 

And  summoning  the  stars  to  guard 
The  slumbers  of  my  fair  Mathilde  ! ” 

“For  mercy’s  sake!”  said  Sir  Rollo,  “the  ave  first,  and 
next  the  song.” 

So  Matilda  again  dutifully  betook  her  to  her  devotions,  and 
began  — 

“ Ave  Maria  gratia  plena  ! ” but  the  music  began  again,  and 
the  prayer  ceased  of  course. 


m 


THE  PAKIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


“ The  faithful  niglit ! Now  all  things  lie 
Hid  by  her  mantle  dark  and  dim, 

In  pious  hope  I hitlier  hie. 

And  humbly  chant  mine  ev’ning  hymn. 

“^Thou  art  my  prayer,  my  saint,  my  shrine ! 

(For  never  holy  pilgrim  kneel’d. 

Or  wept  at  feet  more  pure  than  thine). 

My  virgin  love,  my  sweet  Mathilde!  ” 

“Virgin  love!”  said  the  Baron.  “Upon  my  soul,  this  is 
too  bad  1 ” and  he  thought  of  the  lady’s  lover  whom  he  had 
caused  to  be  hanged. 

But  she  only  thought  of  him  who  stood  singing  at  her  win- 
dow. 

“Niece  Matilda!”  cried  Sir  Roger,  agonizedly,  “ wilt  thou 
listen  to  the  lies  of  an  impudent  page,  whilst  thine  uncle  is 
waiting  but  a dozen  words  to  make  him  happy  ? ” 

At  this  Matilda  grew  angry  : “ Edward  is  neither  impudent 
nor  a liar,  Sir  Uncle,  and  I will  listen  to  the  end  of  the  song.” 

“ Come  away,”  said  Mercurius ; “he  hath  yet  got  wield, 
field,  sealed,  congealed,  and  a dozen  other  rhymes  beside  ; and 
after  the  song  will  come  the  supper.” 

So  the  poor  soul  was  obliged  to  go  ; while  the  lady  listened, 
and  the  page  sung  away  till  morning. 

“ My  virtues  have  been  my  ruin,”  said  poor  Sir  Rollo,  as 
he  and  Mercurius  slunk  silently  out  of  the  window.  “ Had  I 
hanged  that  knave  Edward,  as  I did  the  page  his  predecessor, 
my  niece  would  have  sung  mine  ave,  and  I should  have  been 
by  this  time  an  angel  in  heaven.” 

“ Pie  is  reserved  for  wiser  purposes,”  responded  the  devil: 
“ he  will  assassinate  your  successor,  the  lady  Mathilde’s  brother  ; 
and,  in  consequence,  will  be  hanged.  In  the  love  of  the  lady 
he  will  be  succeeded  hy  a gardener,  who  will  be  replaced  by  a 
monk,  who  will  give  waj^  to  an  ostler,  who  will  be  deposed  by, 
a Jew  pedler,  who  shall,  finally,  yield  to  a noble  earl,  the  future! 
husband  of  the  fair  Mathilde.  So  that,  }^ou  see,  instead  of 
having  one  poor  soul  a-fr3dng,  we  may  now  look  forward  to  a 
goodly  harvest  for  our  lord  the  Devil.” 

The  soul  of  the  Baron  began  to  think  that  his  companion 
knew  too  much  for  one  who  would  make  fair  bets  ; but  there 
was  no  help  for  it ; he  would  not,  and  he  could  not,  cry  off : 
and  he  prayed  inwardly"  that  the  brother  might  be  found  more 
pious  than  the  sister. 

But  there  seemed  little  chance  of  this.  As  they  crossed  the 


THE  DEVIL’S  WAGER. 


193 


court,  lacker’s,  with  smoking  dishes  and  full  jugs,  passed  and 
repassed  continuallj^  although  it  was  long  past  midnight.  On 
entering  the  hall,  they  found  Sir  Randal  at  the  head  of  a vast 
table,  surrounded  h}-  a fiercer  and  more  motley  collection  of 
individuals  than  had  congregated  there  even  in  the  time  of  Sir 
Rollo.  The  lord  of  the  castle  had  signified  that  “ it  was  his 
royal  pleasure  to  be  drunk,”  and  the  gentlemen  of  his  train  had 
obsequiously  followed  their  master.  Mercurius  was  delighted 
with  the  scene,  and  relaxed  his  usually  rigid  countenance  into 
a bland  and  benevolent  smile,  which  became  him  wonderfully. 

The  entrance  of  Sir  Roger,  who  had  been  dead  about  a year, 
and  a person  with  hoofs,  horns,  and  a tail,  rather  disturbed 
the  hilarity  of  the  companjx  Sir  Randal  dropped  his  cup  of 
wine  ; and  Father  Peter,  the  confessor,  incontinently’  paused  in 
the  midst  of  a profane  song,  with  which  he  was  amusing  the 
society. 

Holy  Mother ! ” cried  he,  “ it  is  Sir  Roger.” 

“ Alive  ! ” screamed  Sir  Randal. 

“No,  my^  lord,”  Mercurius  said;  “ Sir  Roger  is  dead,  but 
cometh  on  a matter  of  business  ; and  1 have  the  honor  to  act 
as  his  counsellor  and  attendant.” 

“ Nephew,”  said  Sir  Roger,  “ the  dmmon  saith  justly  ; I am 
come  on  a trilling  affair,  in  which  thy’  service  is  essential.” 

“ 1 will  do  anything,  uncle,  in  my’  power.” 

“Thou  canst  give  me  life,  if  thou  wilt?”  Rut  Sir  Randal 
looked  very  blank  at  this  proposition.  “ 1 mean  life  spiritual, 
Randal,”  said  Sir  Roger ; and  thereupon  he  explained  to  him 
the  nature  of  the  wager. 

Whilst  he  was  telling  his  story,  his  companion  Mercurius 
was  playing  all  sorts  of  antics  in  the  hall ; and,  by  his  wit  and 
fun,  became  so  popular  with  this  godless  crew,  that  they  lost  all 
the  fear  which  his  first  api)carance  had  given  them.  The  friar 
was  wonderfully  taken  with  him,  and  used  his  utmost  eloquence 
and  endeavors  to  convert  the  devil ; the  knights  stopped  drink- 
ing to  listen  to  the  argument ; the  men-at-arms  forbore  brawl- 
ing ; and  the  wicked  little  pages  crowded  round  the  two  sti  ange 
disputants,  to  hear  their  edifying  discourse.  The  ghostly  man, 
however,  had  little  chance  in  the  controversy’,  and  certainly 
little  learning  to  carry  it  on.  Sir  Randal  interrupted  him. 
“ Father  Peter,”  said  he,  “ our  kinsman  is  condemned  for  ever, 
for  want  of  a single  ave  : wilt  thou  say’  it  for  him?”  “ Will- 
ingly, my  lord,”  said  the  monk,  “ with  my  book  ; ” and  accord- 
ingly he  produced  his  missal  to  read,  without  which  aid  it 
appeared  that  the  holy  father  could  not  manage  the  desired 


194 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


prater.  But  the  crafty  Mercurius  had,  by  his  devilish  art, 
inserted  a song  in  the  place  of  the  ave,  so  that  Father  Peter, 
instead  of  chanting  an  hymn,  sang  the  following  irreverent 
ditty : — 

“ Some  love  the  matin-chimes,  which  tell 
The  hour  of  prayer  to  sinner : 

But  better  far’s  the  mid-day  bell, 

Which  speaks  the  hour  of  dinner; 

For  when  1 see  a smoking  fish, 

Or  capon  drown’d  in  gravy. 

Or  noble  haunch  on  silver  dish, 

Full  glad  I sing  mine  ave. 


*‘My  pulpit  is  an  ale-house  bench. 
Whereon  I sit  so  jolly  ; 

A smiling  rosy  country  wench 
My  saint  and  patron  holy. 

I kiss  her  cheek  so  red  and  sleek, 
I press  her  ringlets  wavy. 

And  in  her  willing  ear  I speak 
A most  religious  ave. 


**  And  if  I’m  blind,  yet  heaven  is  kind. 

And  holy  saints  forgiving; 

For  sure  he  leads  a right  good  life 
Who  thus  admires  good  living. 

Above,  tliey  say,  our  flesh  is  air. 

Our  blood  celestial  ichor  : 

Oh,  grant ! mid  all  the  changes  there. 

They  may  not  change  our  liquor  ! ” 

And  with  this  pious  wish  the  holy  confessor  tumbled  under 
the  table  in  an  agony  of  devout  drunkenness  ; wliilst  the  knights, 
the  men-at-arms,  and  the  wicked  little  pages,  rang  out  the  last 
verse  with  a most  melodious  and  emphatic  glee.  “I  am  sorry, 
fair  uncle,”  hiccupped  Sir  Randal,  ‘‘  that,  in  the  matter  of  tlie 
ave,  we  could  not  oblige  thee  in  a more  orthodox  manner ; but 
the  holy  father  has  failed,  and  there  is  not  another  man  in  the 
hall  who  hath  an  idea  of  a prayer.” 

“ It  is  my  own  fault,”  said  Sir  Rollo  ; “ for  I hanged  the  last 
confessor.”  And  he  wished  his  nephew  a surly  good-night,  as 
he  prepared  to  quit  the  room. 

“ Au  revoir,  gentlemen,”  said  the  devil  Mercurius;  and 
once  more  fixed  his  tail  round  the  neck  of  his  disappointt'd  com- 
panion. 


Tim  DEVIL’S  WAGER. 


195 


The  spirit  of  poor  Rollo  was  sadl}^  cast  down ; the  devil,  on 
the  contraiy,  was  in  high  good  humor,  lie  wagged  his  tail 
with  the  most  satisfied  air  in  the  world,  and  cut  a hundred 
jokes  at  the  expense  of  his  poor  associate.  On  they  sped, 
cleaving  swiftly  through  the  cold  niglit  winds,  frightening  the 
birds  that  were  roosting  in  the  woods,  and  the  owls  that  were 
watching  in  the  towers. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  03^,  as  it  is  known,  devils  can  hy 
hundreds  of  miles  : so  that  almost  the  same  beat  of  the  clock 
which  left  these  two  in  Cham[)agne,  found  them  hovering  over 
Paris.  They  dropped  into  the  court  of  the  Lazaiist  Convent, 
and  winded  their  way,  through  passage  and  cloister,  until  they 
reached  the  door  of  the  prior’s  cell. 

Now  the  prior,  Rollo’s  brother,  was  a wicked  and  malignant 
sorcerer ; his  time  was  spent  in  conjuring  devils  and  doing 
wicked  deeds,  instead  of  fasting,  scourging,  and  singing  holy 
psalms : this  Mercurius  knew  ; and  he,  therefore,  was  fully  at 
ease  as  to  the  final  result  of  his  wager  with  poor  Sir  Roger. 

“You  seem  to  be  well  acquainted  with  the  road,”  said  the 
knight. 

“ I have  reason,”  answered  Mercurius,  “ having,  for  a long 
period,  had  the  acquaintance  of  his  reverence,  3'our  brother ; 
but  3’ou  have  little  chance  with  him.” 

“ And  wlw?  ” said  Sir  Rollo. 

“ He  is  under  a bond  to  my  master,  never  to  say  a prayer, 
or  else  his  soul  and  his  body  are  forfeited  at  once.” 

“ Why,  thou  false  and  traitorous  devil ! ” said  the  enraged 
knight;  “ and  thou  knewest  this  when  we  made  our  wager?” 
“Undoubtedly:  do  you  suppose  I would  have  done  so  had 
there  been  anv  chance  of  losing?” 

And  with  this  they  arrived  at  Father  Ignatius’s  door. 

“ Th}"  cursed  presence  threw  a spell  on  my  niece,  and 
stopped  the  tongue  of  my  nephew’s  cha[)lain  ; I do  believe  that 
had  I seen  either  of  them  alone,  m}^  wager  had  been  won.” 

“ Certainl}' ; therefore,  I took  good  care  to  go  with  thee: 
however,  thou  ma3^st  see  the  prior  alone,  if  thou  wilt ; and  lo  ! 
his  door  is  open.  I will  stand  without  for  five  minutes,  when 
it  will  be  time  to  commence  our  journe}".” 

It  was  the  poor  Baron’s  last  chance  : and  he  entered  his 
brother’s  room  more  for  the  five  minutes’  respite  than  from  any 
hope  of  success. 

Father  Ignatius,  the  prior,  was  absorbed  in  magic  calcula- 
tions : he  stood  in  the  middle  of  a circle  of  skulls,  with  no  gar- 
ment except  his 'long  white  beard,  which  reached  to  his  knees ; 


19G  THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 

he  was  waving  a silver  rod,  and  muttering  imprecations  in  some 
horrible  tongue. 

But  Sir  Rollo  came  forward  and  interrupted  his  incantation. 
“I  am,”  said  he,  “the  shade  of  thj"  brother  Roger  de  Rollo; 
and  have  come,  from  pure  brotherly  love,  to  warn  thee  of  thy 
fate.” 

“ Whence  earnest  thou?” 

“ From  the  abode  of  the  blessed  in  Paradise,”  replied  Sir 
Roger,  who  was  inspired  with  a sudden  thought ; “ it  was  but 
five  minutes  ago  that  the  Patron  Saint  of  thy  church  told  me  of 
tli}^  danger,  and  of  thy  wicked  compact  with  the  fiend.  ‘ Go,’ 
said  he,  ‘ to  thy  miserable  brother,  and  tell  him  there  is  but  one 
way  by  which  he  may  escape  from  paving  the  awful  forfeit  of 
his  bond.’” 

“And  how  ma}^  that  be?”  said  the  prior;  “ the  false  fiend 
hath  deceived  me  ; I have  given  him  mj^  soul,  but  have  received 
no  worldly  benefit  in  return.  Brother  ! dear  brother  ! how  may 
I escape  ? ” 

“ I will  tell  thee.  As  soon  as  I heard  the  voice  of  blessed 
St.  Mary  Lazarus  ” (the  worthy  Earl  had,  at  a pinch,  coined 
the  name  of  a saint),  “I  left  the  clouds,  where,  with  other 
angels,  I was  seated,  and  sped  hither  to  save  thee.  ‘ Thy 
brother,’  said  the  Saint,  ‘ hath  but  one  day  more  to  live,  when 
he  will  become  for  all  eternity  the  subject  of  Satan  pif  he  would 
escape,  he  must  boldly  break  his  bond,  by  saying  an  ave.’  ” 

“ It  is  the  express  condition  of  tiie  agreement,”  said  the  un- 
liappy  monk,  “ I must  say  no  praj’er,  or  that  instant  I become 
Satan’s,  bod}"  and  soul.” 

“It  is  the  express  condition  of  the  Saint,”  answered  Roger, 
fiercely ; “ pray,  brother,  pray,  or  thou  art  lost  for  e^er.” 

So  the  foolish  monk  knelt  down,  and  devoutly  sung  out  an 
ave.  “ Amen  ! ” said  Sir  Roger,  devoutl}". 

“ Amen  ! ” said  Mercurius,  as,  suddenly,  coming  behind,  he 
seized  Ignatius  by  his  long  beard,  and  flew  up  with  him  to  the 
top  of  the  church-steeple. 

The  monk  roared,  and  screamed,  and  swore  against  his 
brother ; but  it  was  of  no  avail : Sir  Roger  smiled  kindly  on 
him,  and  said,  “ Do  not  fret,  brother;  it  must  have  come  to 
this  in  a }’ear  or  two.” 

And  he  flew  alongside  of  Mercurius  to  the  steeple-top : but 
this  time  the  devil  had  not  his  tail  round  his  neck.  “I  will  let 
thee  off  thy  bet,”  said  he  to  the  dmmon ; for  he  could  afford, 
now,  to  be  generous. 

“ I believe,  my  lord,”  said  the  daemon,  politely,  “ that  our 


THE  DEVIL’S  WAGER. 


197 


ways  separate  here.”  Sir  Roger  sailed  gayly  upwards  : wiiile 
Mercurius  having  bound  the  miserable  monk  faster  than  ever, 
he  sunk  downwards  to  earth,  and  perhaps  lower.  Ignatius  was 
heard  roaring  and  screaming  as  the  devil  dashed  him  against 
the  iron  spikes  and  buttresses  of  the  church. 

The  moral  of  this  story  will  be  given  in  the  second  edition. 


MADAME  SAND  AND  THE  NEW 
APOCALYPSE. 


I don’t  know  an  impression  more  curious  than  that  which  is 
formed  in  a foreigner’s  mind,  who  has  been  absent  from  this 
place  for  two  or  three  years,  returns  to  it,  and  beholds  the 
change  which  has  taken  place,  in  the  meantime,  in  French 
fashions  and  wa}^s  of  thinking.  Two  3^ears  ago,  for  instance, 
when  I left  the  capital,  I left  the  3'oiing  gentlemen  of  France 
with  their  hair  brushed  en  toupet  in  front,  and  the  toes  of  their 
boots  round ; now  the  boot-toes  are  pointed,  and  the  hair 
combed  flat,  and,  parted  in  the  middle,  falls  in  ringlets  on  the 
fashionable  shoulders  ; and,  in  like  manner,  with  books  as  with 
boots,  the  fashion  has  changed  considerabb',  and  it  is  not  a 
little  curious  to  contrast  the  old  modes  with  the  new.  Absurd 
as  was  the  literary  dandjdsm  of  those  da}'s,  it  is  not  a whit  less 
absurd  now : only  the  manner  is  changed , and  our  versatile 
Frenchmen  have  passed  from  one  caricature  to  another. 

The  revolution  may  be  called  a caricature  of  freedom,  as  the 
empire  was  of  glory ; and  what  they  borrow  from  foreigners 
undergoes  the  same  process.  The}-  take  top-boots  and  mack- 
intoshes from  across  the  water,  and  caricature  our  fashions  ; 
they  read  a little,  very  little,  Shakespeare,  and  caricature  our 
poetr}^ : and  while  in  David’s  time  art  and  religion  were  only  a 
caricature  of  Heathenism,  now,  on  the  contraiy,  these  two  com- 
modities are  impoited  from  German}^ ; and  distorted  caricatures 
originally,  are  still  farther  distorted  on  passing  the  frontier. 

I trust  in  heaven  that  German  art  and  religion  will  take 
no  hold  in  our  country  (where  there  is  a fund  of  roast-beef  that 
will  expel  any  such  humbug  in  the  end)  ; but  these  sprightly 
Frenchmen  have  relished  the  mystical  doctrines  mightily ; and 
having  watched  the  Germans,  with  their  sanctified  looks,  and 


MADAME  SAND. 


199 


quaint  imitations  of  the  old  times,  and  mysterious  transcendental 
talk,  are  aping  many  of  tlieir  fashions  ; as  well  and  solemnly  as 
they  can  : not  veiy  solemnly,  God  wot ; for  I think  one  should 
always  prepare  to  grin  when  a Frenchman  looks  particularly 
grave,  being  sure  that  there  is  sometiiing  false  and  ridiculous 
lurking  under  the  owl-like  solemnit3^ 

When  last  in  Paris,  we  were  in  the  midst  of  what  was  called 
a Catholic  reaction.  Artists  talked  of  faith  in  poems  and  pic- 
tures ; churches  were  built  here  and  there  ; old  missals  were 
copied  and  purchased ; and  numberless  portraits  of  saints, 
with  as  much  gilding  about  them  as  ever  was  used  in  the  fif- 
teenth centuij,  appeared  in  churches,  ladies’  boudoirs,  and 
picture-shops.  One  or  two  fashionable  preachers  rose,  and 
were  eager!}'  folio w'ed  ; the  very  youth  of  the  schools  gave  up 
their  pipes  and  billiards  for  some  time,  and  flocked  in  crowds 
to  Notre  Dame,  to  sit  under  the  feet  of  Lacordaire.  1 went 
to  visit  the  Church  of  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette  yesterday,  which 
was  finished  in  the  heat  of  this  Catholic  rage,  and  was  not  a 
little  struck  by  the  similarity  of  the  place  to  the  worship  cele- 
brated in  it,  and  the  admirable  manner  in  which  the  architect 
lias  caused  his  work  to  express  the  public  feeling  of  the  mo- 
ment. It  is  a pretty  little  bijou  of  a church  : it  is  supported 
by  sham  marble  pillars  ; it  has  a gaudy  ceiling  of  blue  and  gold, 
which  will  look  very  well  for  some  time  ; and  is  filled  with 
gaudy  pictures  and  carvings,  in  the  very  pink  of  the  mode. 
The  congregation  did  not  offer  a bad  illustration  of  the  present 
state  of  Catholic  reaction.  Two  or  three  stray  people  were  at 
prayers  ; there  was  no  service  ; a few  countrymen  and  idlers 
were  staring  about  at  the  pictures  ; and  the  Swiss,  the  paid 
guardian  of  the  place,  was  comfortably  and  appropriately 
asleep  on  his  bench  at  the  door.  I am  inclined  to  think  the 
famous  reaction  is  over : the  students  have  taken  to  their  Sun- 
day  pipes  and  billiards  again  ; and  one  or  tw'O  cafes  have  been 
established,  within  the  last  year,  that  are  ten  times  handsomer 
than  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette. 

However,  if  the  immortal  Gorres  and  the  German  mystics 
have  had  their  day,  there  is  the  immortal  Gothe,  and  the  Pan- 
theists ; and  I incline  to  think  that  the  fashion  has  set  very 
strongly  in  their  favor.  Voltaire  and  the  Encyclopmdians  are 
voted,  now,  harhares^  and  there  is  no  term  of  reprobation  strong 
enough  for  heartless  Humes  and  Helvetiuses,  who  lived  but  to 
destroy,  and  wdio  only  thought  to  doubt.  Wretched  as  Vol- 
taire’s sneers  and  puns  are,  I think  there  is  something  more 
manly  and  earnest  even  in  them,  than  in  the  present  muddy 


200 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


French  transcendentalism.  Pantheism  is  the  word  now ; On© 
and  all  have  begun  to  eprouver  the  besoin  of  a religious  senti- 
ment ; and  we  are  deluged  with  a host  of  gods  accordingly. 
Monsieur  de  Balzac  feels  himself  to  be  inspired  ; Victor  Hugo 
is  a god  ; Madame  Sand  is  a god  ; that  tawdry  man  of  genius, 
Jules  Janin,  who  writes  theatrical  reviews  for  the  Debats^  has 
diN'ine  intimations  ; and  there  is  scarce  a beggarly,  beardless 
scribbler  of  poems  and  prose,  but  tells  you,  in  his  preface,  of 
the  saintete  of  the  sacerdoce  litteraire ; or  a dirty  student,  suck- 
ing tobacco  and  beer,  and  reeling  home  with  a grisette  from 
the  chaumiere,  who  is  not  convinced  of  the  necessity  of  a new 
“ Messianism,”  and  will  hiccup,  to  such  as  will  listen,  chapters 
of  his  own  drunken  Apocal}’pse.  Surel3%  the  negatives  of  the 
old  da}’s  were  far  less  dangerous  than  the  assertions  of  the 
present ; and  3^011  rna3'  fancy  what  a religion  that  must  be, 
which  has  such  high  priests. 

There  is  no  reason  to  trouble  the  reader  with  details  of  the 
lives  of  mau3'  of  these  prophets  and  expounders  of  new  revela* 
tions.  Madame  Sand,  for  instance,  I do  not  know  personally, 
and  can  onty  speak  of  her  from  report.  True  or  false,  the  his> 
toiy,  at  any  rate,  is  not  veiy  edifying ; and  so  ma3^  be  passed 
over : but,  as  a certain  great  philosopher  told  us,  in  very  hum- 
ble and  sim[)le  words,  tliat  we  are  not  to  expect  to  gather 
gra[)es  from  thorns,  or  figs  from  thistles,  we  ma3',  at  least, 
demand,  in  all  persons  assuming  the  character  of  moralist  or 
pliiloso[)her  — order,  soberness,  and  regularit3'  of  life;  for  we 
are  a[)t  to  distrust  the  intellect  that  we  fanc3"  can  be  swayed 
by  circumstance  or  passion  ; and  we  know  how  circumstance  and 
l)assion  will  sway  tiie  intellect : how  mortified  vanit3^  will  form 
excuses  for  itself ; and  how  temper  turns  angril3^  upon  con- 
science, that  reproves  it.  How  often  have  we  called  our 
judge  our  enem3',  because  he  has  given  sentence  against  us  ! 

— I low  often  have  we  called  the  right  wrong,  because  the 
right  condemns  us ! And  in  the  lives  of  maiy^  of  the  bitter 
foes  of  the  Christian  doctrine,  can  we  find  no  personal  reason 
for  their  hostility  ? The  men  in  Athens  said  it  was  out  of  re- 
gard for  religion  that  the3'  murdered  Socrates ; but  we  have 
liad  time,  since  then,  to  reconsider  the  verdict ; and  Socrates’ 
character  is  prett3^  pure  now,  in  spite  of  the  sentence  and  the 
juiy  of  those  da3’s. 

The  Parisian  philosophers  will  attempt  to  explain  to  3'ou 
the  changes  through  which  Madame  Sand’s  mind  has  passed, 

— the  initiatory  triiils,  labors,  and  sufferings  which  she  has 
had  to  go  through,  before  she  reached  her  present  happy 


MADAME  SAND. 


201 


state  of  mental  illumination.  She  teaches  her  wisdom  in  para- 
hies,  ihat  are,  mostly,  a couple  of  volumes  long ; and  began, 
first,  an  elo(pient  attack  on  marriage,  in  the  charming  novel 
of  “ Indiana.”  “ Pity,”  cried  she,  “ ibr  the  poor  woman  who, 
united  to  a being  whose  brute  force  makes  him  her  superior, 
should  venture  to  break  the  bondage  which  is  imposed  on  her, 
and  allow  her  heart  to  be  free.” 

In  support  of  this  claim  of  pity,  she  writes  two  volumes  of 
the  most  ex(|uisite  prose.  AVhat  a tender,  suffering  creature 
is  Indiana ; how  little  her  husband  appreciates  that  gentleness 
which  he  is  crushing  by  his  tyranny  and  brutal  scorn  ; how 
natural  it  is  that,  in  the  absence  of  his  sympath}',  she,  poor 
clinging  confiding  creature,  should  seek  elsewhere  for  shelter; 
how  cautious  sliould  we  be,  to  call  criminal  — to  visit  with  too 
heavy  a censure  — an  act  w'hich  is  one  of  the  natural  impulses 
of  a tender  heart,  that  seeks  but  for  a worth}^  oliject  of  love. 
But  why  attempt  to  tell  the  tale  of  beautiful  Indiana?  Madame 
Sand  has  \vritten  it  so  well,  that  not  the  hardest-hearted  lius- 
l)and  in  Christendom  can  fail  to  be  touched  by  her  sorrows, 
though  he  may  refuse  to  listen  to  her  argument.  Let  us  grant, 
for  argument’s  sake,  that  the  laws  of  marriage,  especially  the 
French  laws  of  marriage,  press  A^eiy  cruelly  upon  unfortunate 
women. 

But  if  one  wants  to  have  a ipiestion  of  this,  or  any  nature, 
honestl}’  argued,  it  is  better,  surely,  to  apply  to  an  indifferent 
person  for  an  imi[)ire.  For  instance,  the  stealing  of  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  or  snuff-boxes  may  or  may  not  be  vicious  ; l)ut 
if  we,  who  have  not  the  wit,  or  will  not  take  the  trouble  to 
decide  the  question  ourselves,  ’want  to  hear  the  real  rights 
of  the  matter,  w^e  should  not,  surely,  ap[)ly  to  a pickpocket  to 
know  what  he  thought  on  the  point.  It  might  naturall}^  be 
})resumed  that  he  would  be  rather  a prejudiced  person  — par- 
ticularly as  his  reasoning,  if  successful,  might  get  him  out  of 
'gaol.  This  is  a homely  illustration,  no  doubt ; all  w^e  would 
urge  by  it  is,  that  JMadame  Sand  having,  according  to  the 
French  newspapers,  had  a stern  husband,  and  also  having, 
according  to  the  ne’^^spapers,  sought  " ‘ S}inpath3"  ” elsewhere, 
her  arguments  ma}-  be  considered  to  be  somewhat  partial,  and 
received  with  some  little  caution. 

And  tell  us  who  have  been  the  social  reformers?  — the 
haters,  that  is,  of  the  present  sj^stem,  according  to  which  we 
live,  love,  many,  have  children,  educate  them,  and  endow 
them  — are  they  pure  themselves  f I do  believe  not  one  ; and 
directl}^  a man  begins  to  quarrel  with  the  world  and  its  ways, 


202 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


and  to  lift  up,  as  he  calls  it,  the  voice  of  his  despair,  and 
preach  passionately  to  mankind  about  this  tyrann}^  of  faith, 
customs,  laws  ; if  we  examine  what  the  personal  character  of 
the  preacher  is,  we  begin  prettj"  clearly  to  understand  the 
value  of  the  doctrine.  Aii}^  one  can  see  why  Rousseau  should 
be  such  a whimpering  reformer,  and  Bj’ron  such  a free  and 
easy  misanthropist,  and  why  our  accomplished  Madame  Sand, 
Avho  has  a genius  and  eloquence  inferior  to  neither,  should  take 
the  present  condition  of  mankind  (French-kind)  so  much  to 
heart,  and  labor  so  hotly  to  set  it  right. 

After  “Indiana”  (which,  we  presume,  contains  the  lady’s 
notions  upon  wives  and  husbands)  came  “ Valentine,”  which 
ma}^  be  said  to  exhibit  her  doctrine,  in  regard  of  3'oung  men 
and  maidens,  to  whom  the  author  would  accord,  as  we  fanc}^ 
the  same  tender  license.  “Valentine”  was  followed  by 
“ Lelia,”  a wonderful  book  indeed,  gorgeous  in  eloquence, 
and  rich  in  magnificent  [loetiy  : a regular  topsyturvj’fication 
of  moralit}',  a thieves’  aiul  prostitutes’  apotheosis.  This  book 
has  received  some  late  enlargements  and  emendations  b}'  the 
writer ; it  contains  her  notions  on  morals,  which,  as  we  have 
said,  are  so  peculiar,  that,  alas  ! they  only  can  be  mentioned 
here,  not  particularized:  but  of  “S[)iridion”  we  may  write  a 
few  pages,  as  it  is  lun*  religious  manifesto. 

In  this  work,  the  ladj'  asserts  her  pantheistical  doctrine,  and 
openly  attacks  the  received  Christian  creed.  She  declares  it 
to  be  useless  now,  and  unfitted  to  the  exigencies  and  the  de- 
gree of  culture  of  the  actual  world  ; and,  though  it  would  be 
liardH  worth  while  to  combat  her  opinions  in  due  form,  it  is, 
at  least,  worth  while  to  notice  them,  not  merely  from  the  ex- 
traordinary eloquence  and  gemius  of  the  woman  herself,  but 
because  they  express  the  opinions  of  a great  number  of  people 
besides  : for  she  not  only  produces  her  own  thoughts,  but  imi- 
tates those  of  others  very  eagerly  ; and  one  finds  in  her  writ- 
ings so  much  similarity  with  others,  or,  in  others,  so  much 
resemblance  to  her,  that  the  book  before  us  may  pass  for  the 
exiiression  of  the  sentiments  of  a certain  French  part}". 

“ Dieu  est  mort,”  says  another  writer  of  the  same  class,  and 
of  great  genius  too.  — “Dieu  est  mort,”  writes  Mr.  Henry 
Heine,  speaking  of  the  Christian  God  ; and  he  adds,  in  a dar- 
ing figure  of  speech,  — “ N’entendez-vous  pas  sonner  la  Clo- 
chette"?  — on  porte  les  sacremens  a un  Dieu  qui  se  meurt ! ” 
Another  of  the  pantheist  poetical  philosophers,  Mr.  Edgar 
Quinet,  has  a poem,  in  Avhich  Christ  ^nd  the  Virgin  Mary  are 
made  to  die  similarly,  and  the  former  is  classed  with  Prome-^ 


MADAME  SAND. 


203 


theiis.  This  book  of  “ Spirklion  ” is  a coiitiiuiation  of  the 
theme,  and  perhaps  you  will  listen  to  some  of  the  author’s 
expositions  of  it. 

It  must  be  eonfessed  that  the  eontroversialists  of  the  present 
day  have  an  eminent  advantage  over  their  [)redecessors  in  the 
days  of  folios  ; it  recpiired  some  learning  then  to  write  a book, 
and  some  time,  at  least — for  the  very  hil)or  of  writing  out  a 
thousand  siieli  vast  [>ages  would  demand  a eonsiderable  period. 
But  now,  in  the  age  of  duodecimos,  the  system  is  reformed  alto- 
gether : a male  or  female  controversialist  draws  upon  his  im- 
agination, and  not  his  learning ; makes  a stoiy  instead  of  an 
argument,  and,  in  the  course  of  150  [)ages  (where  the  preacher 
has  it  all  his  own  way)  will  prove  or  disprove  you  anything. 
And,  to  our  shame  be  it  said,  we  Protestants  have  set  the 
example  of  this  kind  of  [)roselytism  — those  detestable  mixtures 
of  truth,  lies,  false  sentiment,  false  reasoning,  bad  grammar, 
correct  and  genuine  philanthropy  and  piety — ^1  mean  our  relig- 
ious tracts,  which  any  woman  or  man,  be  he  ever  so  silljg  can 
take  upon  himself  to  write,  and  sell  for  a penny,  as  if  religious 
instruction  were  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world.  We,  I say, 
have  set  the  example  in  this  kind  of  co’m[)osition,  and  all  the 
sects  of  the  earth  will,  doubtless,  speedily  follow  it.  I can 
point  you  out  blasphemies  in  tamoiis  [)ious  tracts  that  are  as 
dreadful  as  those  above  mentioned  ; but  this  is  no  place  for 
such  discussions,  and  we  had  better  return  to  Aladame  Sand. 
As  Mrs  Sherwood  expounds,  by  means  of  many  touching  his- 
tories and  anecdotes  of  little  boys  and  girls,  her  notions  of 
church  history,  church  catechism,  church  doctrine  ; — as  the 
author  of  “ Father  Clement,  a Roman  Catholic  Story,”  demol- 
ishes the  stately  structure  of  eighteen  centuries,  the  mighty  and 
beautiful  Roman  Catholic  fiiitli,  in  whose  bosom  repose  so  many 
saints  and  sages,  — by  the  means  of  a three-and-sixpenny  duo- 
decimo volume,  which  tumbles  over  the  vast  faliric,  as  David’s 
pebble-stone  did  Goliath;  — as,  again,  the  Roman  Catholic 
author  of  “■Geraldine”  falls  foul  of  Luther  and  Calvin,  and 
drowns  the  awful  echoes  of  their  tremendous  protest  by  the 
sounds  of  her  little  half-crown  trumpet : in  like  manner,  by 
means  of  prett}’  sentimental  tales,  and  cheap  apologues,  Mrs. 
Sand  proclaims  her  truth  — that  we  need  a new  Messiah,  and 
that  the  Christian  religion  is  no  more  ! O awful,  awful  name 
of  God  ! Light  unbearable  ! Mystery  unfathomable  ! Vastness 
immeasurable  ! — Who  are  these  who  come  forward  to  explain 
the  mystery,  and  gaze  unblinking  into  the  depths  of  the  light, 
and  measure  the  immeasurable  vastness  to  a hair?  O name, 


204 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


that  God’s  people- of  old  did  fear  to  utter ! O light,  that  God’s 
prophet  would  have  perished  had  he  seen  ! Who  are  these  that 
are  now  so  familiar  with  it?  — Women,  truly  ; for  the  most  part 
weak  women  — weak  in  intellect,  weak  may  hap  in  spelling  and 
grammar,  but  marvellously  strong  in  faith  : — women,  who  step 
down  to  the  people  with  stately  step  and  voice  of  authority,  and 
deliver  their  twopenu}^  tablets,  as  if  there  were  some  Divine 
authority  for  the  wu-etched  nonsense  recorded  there  ! 

With  regard  to  the  spelling  and  grammar,  our  Parisian 
P3Thoness  stands,  in  the  goodly  fellowship,  remarkable.  Her 
st3'le  is  a noble,  and,  as  far  as  a foreigner  can  judge,  a strange 
tongue,  beautifull3^  rich,  and  pure.  She  has  a ver3^  exuberant 
imagination,  and,  with  it,  a veiy  chaste  style  of  expression. 
She  never  scarcel3^  indulges  in  declamation,  as  other  modern 
prophets  do,  and  3'et  her  sentences  are  exquisite^  melodious 
and  full.  She  seldom  runs  a thought  to  death  (after  the  manner 
of  some  prophets,  who,  wdien  the3’  catch  a little  one,  toy  with 
it  until  the3’  kill  it),  but  she  leaves  you  at  the  end  of  one  of  her 
brief,  rich,  melanchol3^  sentences,  with  plent3"  of  food  for  future 
cogitation.  I can’t  express  to  3^11  the  charm  of  them ; they 
seem  to  me  like  the  sound  of  countiy  bells  — provoking  I don’t 
know  what  vein  of  musing  and  meditation,  and  falling  sweetly 
and  sadl3*  on  the  ear. 

This  wonderful  power  of  language  must  have  been  felt  by 
most  people  who  read  Madame  Sand’s  first  books,  “ Valentine” 
and  “ Indiana in  “ Spiridion  ” it  is  greater,  I think,  than 
ever ; and  for  those  who  are  not  afraid  of  the  matter  of  the 
novel,  the  manner  will  be  found  most  delightful.  The  author’s 
intention,  I presume,  is  to  describe,  in  a parable,  her  notions 
of  the  downfall  of  the  Catholic  church  ; and,  indeed,  of  the 
whole  Christian  scheme  : she  places  her  hero  in  a monastery  in 
Ita(y,  where,  among  the  characters  about  him,  and  the  events 
which  occur,  the  particular  tenets  of  Madame  Dudevant’s  doc- 
trine are  not  inaptl3’  laid  down.  Innocent,  faithful,  tender- 
hearted, a 3mung  monk,  b3^  name  Angel,  finds  himself,  when  he 
has  pronounced  his  vows,  an  object  of  aversion  and  hatred  to 
the  godl3"  men  whose  lives  he  so  much  respects,  and  whose  love 
he  wmuld  make  an3'  sacrifice  to  win.  After  enduring  much,  he 
flings  himself  at  the  feet  of  his  confessor,  and  begs  for  his  S3'in- 
pathv  and  counsel ; but  the  confessor  spurns  him  awa3q  and 
accuses  him,  fiercel3^,  of  some  unknown  and  terrible  crime  — 
bids  him  never  return  to  the  confessional  until  contrition  has 
touched  his  heart,  and  the  stains  which  sully  his  spirit  are,  by 
sincere  repentance,  washed  awa3\ 


205 


imadaaie  sand. 

‘‘Thus  speaking,”  says  Angel,  “Father  Ilegesippuy  tore 
<iway  his  robe,  which  I was  holding  in  my  supplicating  hands. 
In  a sort  of  wildness  I still  grasped  it  tighter ; he  pushed  me 
liercely  from  him,  and  I fell  with  iny  face  towards  the  ground. 
He  (quitted  me,  closing  violenUy  after  him  the  door  of  the 
sacristy,  in  whicli  this  scene  had  [)assed.  I was  left  alone  in 
the  darkness.  Either  from  the  yiolence  of  my  fall,  or  the  excess 
of  my  grief,  a yein  had  burst  in  my  tliroat,  and  a luemorrliage 
ensued.  I had  not  tlie  force  to  rise  ; 1 felt  my  senses  rapidly 
sinking,  and,  presently,  I lay  stretched  on  the  payement,  un- 
conscious, and  l)athed  in  npy  blood.” 

[Now  the  wonderful  part  of  the  story  begins.] 

“1  know  not  how  much  time  I passed  in  this  way.  As  1 
came  to  myself  I felt  an  agreeable  coolness.  It  seemed  as  if 
some  harmonious  air  was  playing  round  about  me,  stirring  gently 
in  my  hair,  and  drying  the  drops  of  perspiration  on  my  brow. 
It  seemed  to  approach,  and  then  again  to  withdraw,  breathing 
now  softly  and  sweetly  in  the  distance,  and  now  returning,  as 
if  to  giye  me  strength  and  courage  to  rise. 

I would  not,  howeyer,  do  so  as  yet ; for  I felt  myself,  as  I 
lay,  under  the  influence  of  a pleasure  quite  new  to  me  ; and 
listened,  in  a kind  of  })eaceful  aberration,  to  the  gentle  murmurs 
of  the  summer  wind,  as  it  breathed  on  me  through  the  closed 
window-blinds  aboyc  me.  Then  I fancied  I heard  a yoice  that 
spoke  to  me  from  the  end  of  the  sacristy  : it  whispered  so  low 
that  I 'could  not  catch  the  w'ords.  I remained  motionless,  and 
gaye  it  my  wdiole  attention.  At  last  I heard,  distinctly,  the 
following  sentence  : — '-Spirit  of  Truths  raise  up  these  victims  of 
ignorance  and  imposture.’  ‘ Father  Ilegesippus,’  said  I,  in  a 
weak  yoice,  ‘ is  that  3"OU  who  are  returning  to  me?’  But  no 
one  ans\yered.  I lifted  mj^self  on  my  hands  and  knees,  I lis- 
tened again,  but  I heard  nothing.  I got  up  completely,  and 
looked  about  me : I had  fallen  so  near  to  the  onl}^  door  in 
this  little  room,  that  none,  after  the  departure  of  the  confessor, 
could  haye  entered  it  without  passing  over  me  ; besides,  the 
door  was  shut,  and  only  opened  from  the  inside  by  a strong 
lock  of  the  ancient  shape.  I touched  it,  and  assured  myself 
that  it  wms  closed.  I was  seized  wdth  terror,  and,  for  some 
moments,  did  not  dare  to  move.  Leaning  against  the  door,  I 
looked  round,  and  endeavored  to  see  into  the  gloom  in  which 
the  angles  of  the  room  w’ere  enveloped.  A pale  light,  which 
came  from  an  upper  window,  half  closed,  was  seen  to  be  trem- 
bling in  the  midst  of  the  apartment.  The  wind  beat  the  shutter 
to  and  fro,  and  enlarged  or  diminished  the  space  through  wliick 


206 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 

the  light  issued.  The  objects  which  were  in  this  half  light  — 
the  praying-desk,  surmounted  its  skull  — a few  books  Ijdng 
on  the  benches  — a surplice  hanging  against  the  wall  — seemed 
to  move  with  the  shadow  of  the  foliage  that  the  air  agitated  be- 
hind  the  window.  When  1 thought  1 was  alone,  I felt  ashamed 
of  my  former  timidit}^ ; I made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  was 
about  to  move  forward  in  order  to  open  the  shutter  altogether, 
but  a deep  sigh  came  from  the  praying-desk,  and  kept  me  nailed 
to  my  place.  And  yet  I saw  the  desk  distinctl}^  enough  to  be 
sure  that  no  person  was  near  it.  Then  I had  an  idea  which 
gave  me  courage.  Some  person,  I thought,  is  behind  the  shut- 
ter, and  has  been  saying  his  prayers  outside  without  thinking 
of  me.  But  who  would  be  so  bold  as  to  express  such  wishes 
and  utter  such  a pra3’er  as  I had  just  heard? 

“ Curiosit3%  the  onl}"  passion  and  amusement  permitted  in  a 
cloister,  now  entirely  possessed  me,  and  I advanced  towards 
the  window.  But  I liad  not  made  a step  when  a black  shadow, 
as  it  seemed  to  me,  detaching  itself  Rom  the  praying-desk, 
traversed  the  room,  directing  itself  towards  the  window,  and 
passed  swiftl}'  by  me.  The  movement  was  so  rapid  that  I had 
not  time  to  avoid  what  seemed  a bod}’  advancing  towards  me, 
and  my  fright  was  so  great  that  I thought  I should  faint  a 
second  time.  But  1 felt  nothing,  and,  as  if  the  shadow  had 
l)assed  through  me,  I saw  it  suddenly  disa})pcar  to  iny  left. 

“ 1 rushed  to  the  window,  1 pushed  back  the  blind  with 
precii)itation,  and  looked  round  the  sacrist}" : 1 was' there, 
entirelv  alone.  1 looked  into  the  garden  — it  was  deserted,  and 
the  mid-day  wind  was  wandering  among  the  flowers.  I took 
courage,  I examined  all  the  corners  of  the  room ; 1 looked  be- 
hind the  praying-desk,  which  was  veiy  large,  and  I shook  all 
the  sacerdotal  vestments  which  were  hanging  on  the  walls, 
everything  was  in  its  natural  condition,  and  could  give  me  no  ex- 
l)lanation  of  what  had  just  occurred.  The  sight  of  all  the  blood 
1 had  lost  led  me  to  fanev  that  my  l)rain  had,  probabl}g  been 
weakened  b}^  the  Imemorrhage,  and  that  1 had  been  a prey  to 
some  delusion.  I retired  to  my  cell,  and  remained  shut  up 
there  until  the  next  day.” 

I don’t  know  whether  the  reader  has  been  as  much  struck 
with  the  abo\^e  mysterious  scene  as  the  writer  has  ; but  the  fan- 
cy of  it  strikes  me  as  very  fine  ; and  the  natural  supernaturalness 
is  kept  up  in  the  best  style.  The  shutter  swa}’ing  to  and  fro, 
the  fitful  light  appearing  over  the  furniture  of  the  room,  and  gR- 
ing  it  an  air  of  strange  motion  — the  awful  shadow  which  passed 
through  the  body  of  the  timid  }'oung  novice  — are  surel}"  very 


MADAME  SAND. 


207 


finely  painted.  “I  rushed  to  the  shutter,  and  flung  it  back: 
there  was  no  one  in  the  sacrist3\  I looked  into  the  garden  ; it 
was  deserted,  and  the  niid-da}'  wind  was  roaming  among  the 
flowers.”  Tlie  dreariness  is  wonderfully  described  : only  the 
})Oor  pale  boy  looking  eagerly  out  from  the  window  of  the  sac- 
risty, and  the  hot  mid-day  wind  walking  in  the  solitaiy  garden. 
Ilow  skilfull}'  is  each  of  these  little  strokes  dashed  in,  and  how 
well  do  all  together  coml)ine  to  make  a picture  ! But  we  must 
have  a little  more  about  Spiridioif  s wonderful  visitant. 

“ As  I entered  into  the  garden,  I stepped  a little  on  one  side, 
to  make  way  for  a person  whom  I saw  before  me.  lie  was  a 
young  man  of  surprising  l)eaut3y  and  attired  in  a foreign  cos- 
tume. Although  dressed  in  the  large  black  robe  which  the  su- 
periors of  our  order  wear,  he  had,  underneath,  a short  jacket  of 
line  cloth,  histened  round  the  waist  b3^  a leathern  belt,  and  a 
buckle  of  silver,  after  the  manner  of  the  old  German  students. 
Like  them,  he  wore,  instead  of  the  sandals  of  our  monks,  short 
tight  boots  ; and  over  the  collar  of  his  shirt,  which  fell  on  his 
shoulders,  and  was  as  wliite  as  snow,  hung,  in  rich  golden  curls, 
the  most  beautiful  hair  I ever  saw.  He  was  tall,  and  his  elegant 
posture  seemed  to  reveal  to  me  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  com- 
manding. With  much  respect,  and  3’et  uncertain,  I half  saluted 
him.  He  did  not  return  m3'  salute  ; but  he  smiled  on  me  with 
so  benevolent  an  air,  and  at  the  same  time,  his  e3'es  severe  and 
blue,  looked  towards  me  with  an  expression  of  such  compassion- 
ate tenderness,  that  his  features  have  never  since  then  passed 
awa3^  from  mv  recollection.  I stopped,  hoping  he  would  speak 
to  me,  and  persuading  myself,  from  the  majest3'  of  his  aspect, 
that  he  had  tlie  power  to  protect  me  ; but  the  monk,  who  was 
walking  behind  me,  and  who  did  not  seem  to  remark  him  in  the 
least,  forced  him  brutally  to  step  aside  from  the  walk,  and  pushed 
me  so  rudel3'  as  almost  to  cause  me  to  fall.  Not  wishing  to 
engage  in  a quarrel  with  this  coarse  monk,  I moved  awa3^ ; but, 
after  having  taken  a few  steps  in  the  garden,  I looked  back,  and 
saw  the  unknown  still  gazing  on  me  with  looks  of  the  tenderest 
solicitude.  The  sun  shone  full  upon  him,  and  made  his  hair 
look  radiant.  He  sighed,  and  lifted  his  fine  eyes  to  heaven,  as 
if  to  invoke  its  justice  in  my  favor,  and  to  call  it  to  bear  witness 
to  my  iniseiy ; he  turned  slowly  towards  the  sanctuaiy,  entered 
into  the  quire,  and  was  lost,  presenthy  in  the  shade.  I longed 
to  return,  spite  of  the  monk,  to  follow  this  noble  stranger,  and 
to  tell  him  m3^  afflictions  ; but  who  was  he,  that  I imagined  he 
would  listen  to  them,  and  cause  them  to  cease?  I felt,  even 


208 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


while  his  softness  drew  me  towards  him,  that  he  still  inspired 
me  with  a kind  of  fear  ; for  I saw  in  his  phj^siognomy  as  much 
austerity  as  sweetness.” 

Who  was  he  ? — we  shall  see  that.  He  was  somebody  very 
mysterious  indeed  ; but  our  author  has  taken  care,  after  the 
manner  of  her  sex,  to  make  a veiy  pretty  fellow  of  him,  and  to 
dress  him  in  the  most  becoming  costumes  possible. 

The  individual  in  tight  boots  and  a rolling  collar,  with  the 
copious  golden  locks,  and  the  solemn  blue  ejxs,  who  had  just 
gazed  on  Spiridion,  and  inspired  him  with  such  a feeling  of  ten- 
der awe,  is  a much  more  important  personage  than  the  reader 
might  suppose  at  first  sight.  This  beautiful,  m^’sterious,  dandy 
ghost,  whose  costume,  with  a true  woman’s  coquetry,  Madame 
Dudevant  has  so  rejoiced  to  describe  — is  her  religious  type,  a 
m3'stical  representation  of  Faith  struggling  up  towards  Truth, 
through  superstition,  doubt,  fear,  reason, — in  tight  inexpress- 
ibles, with  “ a belt  such  as  is  worn  b}^  the  old  German  students.” 
You  will  pardon  me  for  treating  such  an  awful  person  as  this 
somewhat  liglitl}' ; but  there  is  alwa3's,  I think,  such  a dash  of 
the  ridiculous  in  the  French  sublime,  that  the  critic  should  try 
and  do  justice  to  both,  or  he  may  fail  in  giving  a fair  account  of 
either.  This  character  of  llebronius,  the  type  of  Mrs.  Sand’s 
convictions  — if  convictions  they  ma3^  be  called  — or,  at  least, 
the  allegory  under  which  her  doubts  are  represented,  is,  in  parts, 
very  finely  drawn  ; contains  many  passages  of  truth,  very  deep 
and  touching,  by  the  side  of  others  so  entirel3'  absurd  and  unrea- 
sonable, that  the  reader’s  feelings  are  continually  swaying  be- 
tween admiration  and  something  very  like  contempt  — always 
in  a kind  of  wonder  at  the  strange  mixture  before  him.  But  let 
us  hear  Madame  Sand  : — 

“Peter  llebronius,”  says  our  author,  “was  not  originally 
so  named.  His  real  name  was  Samuel.  He  was  a Jew,  and 
born  in  a little  village  in  the  neighborhood  of  Innspriick.  Ilis 
famil3^  which  possessed  a considerable  fortune,  left  him,  in  his 
earl3yyouth,  completely  free  to  his  own  pursuits.  From  infancy 
he  had  showui  that  these  were  serious.  He  loved  to  be  alone  ; 
and  passed  his  da3^s,  and  sometimes  his  nights,  wandering 
among  the  mountains  and  valleys  in  the  neighborhood  of  his 
birthplace.  He  would  often  sit  by  the  brink  of  torrents,  lis- 
tening to  the  voice  of  their  waters,  and  endeavoring  to  pene- 
trate the  meaning  which  Nature  had  hidden  in  those  sounds. 
As  he  advanced  in  years,  his  inquiries  became  more  curious 


MADAME  SAND. 


209 


and  more  grave.  It  was  necessaiy  that  he  should  receive  a 
solid  education,  and  his  parents  sent  him  to  stud}'  in  the  Ger- 
man universities.  Luther  had  been  dead  only  a century,  and 
his  words  and  his  memory  still  lived  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
disciples.  The  new  faith  was  strengthening  the  conquests  it  had 
made  ; the  Reformers  were  as  ardent  as  in  the  first  days,  but 
their  ardor  was  more  enlightened  and  more  measured.  Prose- 
lytism  was  still  carried  on  with  zeal,  and  new  converts  were 
made  every  day.  In  listening  to  the  morality  and  to  the  dog- 
mas which  Lutheranism  had  taken  from  Catholicism,  Samuel 
was  filled  with  admiration.  His  bold  and  sincere  spirit  instantly 
compared  the  doctrines  which  were  now  submitted  to  him,  with 
those  in  the  belief  of  which  he  had  been  bred  ; and,  enlight- 
ened by  the  comparison,  was  not  slow  to  acknowledge  the  infe- 
riority of  Judaism.  He  said  to  himself,  that  a religion  made 
for  a single  people,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others,  — which  only 
offered  a barbarous  justice  for  rule  of  conduct,  — which  neither 
rendered  the  present  intelligible  nor  satisfactory,  and  left  the 
luture  uncertain,  — could  not  be  that  of  noble  souls  and  lofty 
intellects  ; and  that  he  could  not  be  the  God  of  truth  who  had 
dictated,  in  the  midst  of  thunder,  his  vacillating  will,  and  had 
called  to  the  performance  of  his  narrow  wishes  the  slaves  of  a 
vulgar  terror.  Alwa}'s  conversant  with  himself,  Samuel,  who 
had  spoken  w'hat  he  thought,  now  performed  what  he  had  spo- 
ken ; and,  a year  after  his  arrival  in  Germany,  solemnly  abjured 
Judaism,  and  entered  into  the  bosom  of  the  Reformed  Church. 
As  he  did  not  wash  to  do  things  by  halves,  and  desired  as 
much  as  was  in  him  to  put  off  the  old  man  and  lead  a new 
life,  he  changed  his  name  of  Samuel  to  that  of  Peter.  Some 
time  passed,  during  which  he  strengthened  and  instructed  him- 
self in  his  new  religion.  Very  soon  he  arrived  at  the  point  of 
searching  for  objections  to  refute,  and  adversaries  to  overthrow. 
Hold  and  enterprising,  he  wmnt  at  once  to  the  strongest,  and 
Lossuet  was  the  first  Catholic  author  that  he  set  himself  to 
read.  He  commenced  with  a kind  of  disdain  ; believing  that 
the  faith  whicii  he  had  just  embraced  contained  the  pure  truth, 
he  despised  all  the  attacks  which  could  be  made  against  it,  and 
laughed  already  at  the  irresistible  arguments  which  he  was  to 
find  in  the  works  of  the  Eagle  of  Meaux.  But  his  mistrust 
and  irony  soon  gave  place  to  wonder  first,  and  then  to  admira- 
tion : he  thought  that  the  cause  pleaded  by  such  an  advocate 
must,  at  least,  be  respectable  ; and,  by  a natural  transition, 
came  to  think  that  great  geniuses  w'ould  only  devote  them- 
selves  to  that  which  was  great.  He  then  studied  Catholicism 


210 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


with  the  same  ardor  and  impartialit}' which  he  had  bestowed  on 
Lutheranism.  He  went  into  France  to  gain  instruction  from, 
the  professors  of  the  Mother  Cliurch,  as  he  had  from  the  Doc- 
tors of  the  reformed  creed  in  German}".  He  saw  Arnauld  Fene- 
lon,  that  second  Gregory  of  Nazianzen,  and  Bossuet  himself. 
Guided  b}'  these  masters,  whose  virtues  made  him  appreciate 
their  talents  the  more,  he  rapidly  penetrated  to  the  depth  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  Catholic  doctrine  and  morality.  He  found,  in 
this  religion,  all  that  had  for  him  constituted  the  grandeur  and 
beaut}’  of  Protestantism,  — the  dogmas  of  the  Unity  and  Eter- 
nity of  God,  which  the  two  religions  had  borrowed  from  Juda- 
ism ; and,  what  seemed  the  natural  consequence  of  the  last 
doctrine  — a doctrine,  however,  to  which  the  Jews  had  not 
arrived  — the  doctrine  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul ; free  will 
in  this  life  ; in  the  next,  recompense  for  the  good,  and  pun- 
ishment for  the  evil.  He  found,  more  pure,  perhaps,  and  more, 
elevated  in  Catholicism  than  in  Protestantism,  that  sublime 
morality  which  preaches  equality  to  man,  fraternity,  love, 
charity,  renouncement  of  self,  devotion  to  your  neighbor: 
Catholicism,  in  a w’ord,  seemed  to  possess  that  vast  formula, 
and  that  vigorous  unity,  w’hich  Lutheranism  wanted.  The  lat- 
ter had,  indeed,  in  its  favor,  the  liberty  of  inquiry,  which  is 
also  a want  of  the  human  mind  ; and  had  proclaimed  the  au- 
thority of  individual  reason  : but  it  had  so  lost  that  which  is 
the  necessary  l^asis  and  vital  condition  of  all  revealed  religion 
— the  principle  of  infallibility  ; because  nothing  can  live  except 
in  virtue  of  the  laws  that  presided  at  its  birth  ; and,  in  con- 
sequence, one  revelation  cannot  be  continued  and  confirmed 
without  another.  Now,  infallibility  is  nothing  but  revelation 
continued  by  God,  or  the  Word,  in  the  person  of  his  vicars. 

“At  last,  after  much  refiection,  Hebronius  acknowledged 
himself  entirely  and  sincerely  convinced,  and  received  baptism 
from  the  hands  of  Bossuet.  He  added  the  name  of  Spiridion 
to  that  of  Peter,  to  signify  that  he  had  been  twice  enlightened  by 
t he  Spirit.  Resolved  thenceforward  to  consecrate  his  life  to  the 
worship  of  the  new  God  who  had  called  him  to  Him,  and  to  the 
study  of  His  doctrines,  he  passed  into  Italy,  and,  with  the  aid  of 
a large  fortune,  which  one  of  his  uncles,  a Catholic  like  himself, 
had  left  to  him,  he  built  this  convent  where  we  now  are.” 

A friend  of  mine,  who  has  just  come  from  Italy,  says  that 

he  has  there  left  Messrs.  Sp r,  P 1,  and  W.  Dr d, 

who  were  the  lights  of  the  great  church  in  Newman  Street,  who 


MADAxAIE  SAND. 


211 


were  themselves  apostles,  and  declared  and  believed  that  every 
word  of  nonsense  which  fell  from  their  lips  was  a direct  spiritual 
intervention.  These  gentlemen  have  become  Puseyites  already, 
and  are,  my  friend  states,  in  the  high  wa}’  to  Catholicism. 
Madame  Sand  herself  was  a Catholic  some  time  since : having 
been  converted  to  that  faitli  along  with  M.  N , of  the  Acad- 
emy of  Alusic  ; Mr.  L , the  pianoforte  player  ; and  one  or 

two  other  chosen  individuals,  by  the  famous  Al)bede  la  M . 

Abbe  de  la  IM (so  told  me  in  the  Diligence,  a priest,  who 

read  his  breviary  and  gossii)ed  alternately  very  curiously  and 
pleasantly)  is  himself  an  dme  perdue:  the  man  spoke  of  his 
brother  clergyman  with  actual  horror  ; and  it  certainly  appears 
that  the  Abbe’s  works  of  conversion  have  not  prospered  ; for 
Madame  Sand,  having  brought  her  hero  (and  herself,  as  we 
maj'  presume)  to  the  point  of  Catholicism,  proceeds  directly'  to 
dispose  of  that  as  she  has  done  of  Judaism  and  Protestantism, 
ami  will  not  leave,  of  the  whole  fabric  of  Christianitj’,  a single 
stone  standing. 

I think  the  fate  of  our  English  Newman  Street  apostles,  and 

of  M.  de  la  M , the  mad  i)i  iest,  and  his  congregation  of  mad 

converts,  should  be  a warning  to  such  of  us  as  are  inclined  to 
dabble  in  religious  speculations  ; for,  in  them,  as  in  all  others, 
our  flighty  brains  soon  lose  themselves,  and  we  And  our  reason 
speedily  lying  prostrated  at  the  mercy  of  our  passions ; and  I 
think  that  Madame  Sand’s  novel  of  Spiridion  ma}'  do  a vast 
deal  of  good,  and  bears  a good  moral  with  it ; though  not  such 
an  one,  perhaps,  as  our  fair  philosopher  intended.  For  any- 
thing he  learned,  Samuel-Peter-Spiridion-IIebronius  might  have 
remained  a Jew  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  Wherefore  be 
in  such  a huny  to  set  up  new  faiths?  Wherefore,  Madame 
Sand,  try  and  be  so  preternaturall}"  wise?  Wherefore  be  so 
eager  to  jump  out  of  one  religion,  for  the  purpose  of  jumping 
into  another?  See  what  good  this  philosophical  friskiness  has 
done  3^011,  and  on  what  sort  of  ground  you  are  come  at  last. 
A'ou  are  so  wonderfully  sagacious,  that  3*011  flounder  in  mud  at 
eveiy  step ; so  amazingl3*  clear-sighted,  that  3*0111’  eyes  cannot 
see  an  inch  before  3*011,  having  put  out,  with  that  extinguishing 
genius  of  3"oiirs,  evei’3*  one  of  the  lights  that  are  sufficient  for 
the  conduct  of  common  men.  And  for  what?  Let  our  friend 
Spiridion  speak  for  himself.  After  setting  up  his  convent,  and 
filling  it  wdth  monks,  who  entertain  an  immense  respect  for  his 
wealth  and  genius.  Father  Hebroniiis,  unanimoiisl3^  elected 
prior,  gives  himself  up  to  further  studies,  and  leaves  his  monks 
to  themselves.  Industrious  and  sober  as  they*  were,  originally, 


212 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


the}"  grow  qiiickty  intemperate  and  idle  ; and  Hebronins,  who 
does  not  appear  among  his  flock  until  he  has  freed  himself  of 
the  Catholic  religion,  as  he  has  of  the  Jewish  and  the  Protesh 
ant,  sees,  with  dismay,  the  evil  condition  of  his  disciples,  and 
regrets,  too  late,  the  precipitancy  by  which  he  renounced,  then 
and  for  ever,  Christianity.  “•  But,  as  he  had  no  new  religion 
to  adopt  in  its  place,  and  as,  grown  more  prudent  and  calm,  he 
did  not  wish  to  accuse  himself  unnecessarily,  once'more,  of  in- 
constancy and  apostasy,  he  still  maintained  all  the  exterior 
forms  of  the  worship  which  inwardly  he  had  abjured.  But  it 
was  not  enough  for  him  to  have  (piitted  error,  it  was  necessary 
to  discover  truth.  But  Ilebronius  had  well  looked  round  to  dis- 
cover it ; he  could  not  find  anything  that  resembled  it.  Then 
commenced  for  him  a series  of  sufferings,  unknown  and  terrible. 
Placed  face  to  face  with  doubt,  this  sincere  and  religious  spirit 
was  frightened  at  its  own  solitude  ; and  as  it  had  no  other 
desire  nor  aim  on  earth  than  truth,  and  nothing  else  here  below 
interested  it,  he  lived  absorbed  in  his  own  sad  contemplations, 
looked  ceaselessly  into  the  vague  that  surrounded  him  like  an 
ocean  without  bounds,  and  seeing  the  horizon  retreat  and 
retreat  as  ever  he  wished  to  near  it.  Lost  in  this  immense 
uncertainty,  he  felt  as  if  attacked  by  vertigo,  and  his  thoughts 
whirled  within  his  brain.  Then,  fatigued  with  his  vain  toils 
and  hopeless  endeavors,  he  would  sink  down  depressed,  un- 
manned, life-wearied,  only  living  in  the  sensation  of  that  silent 
grief  which  he  felt  and  could  not  comprehend.” 

It  is  a pity  that  this  hapless  Spiridion,  so  eager  in  his  pas- 
sage from  one  creed  to  another,  and  so  loud  in  his  profession  of 
the  truth,  wherever  he  fancied  that  he  had  found  it,  had  not 
waited  a little,  before  he  avowed  himself  either  Catholic  or 
Pi’otestant,  and  implicated  others  in  errors  and  follies  which 
might,  at  least,  have  been  conlined  to  his  own  bosom,  and  there 
have  lain  comparatively  harmless.  In  what  a pretty  state,  for 
instance,  will  Messrs.  Dr d and  P 1 have  left  their  New- 

man Street  congregation,  who  are  still  plunged  in  their  old 
superstitions,  from  which  their  spiritual  pastors  and  masters 
have  been  set  free  ! In  what  a state,  too,  do  Mrs.  Sand  and 
iier  brother  and  sister  philoso[)hers.  Templars,  Saint  Simonians,  ^ 
Fourierites,  Lerouxites,  or  whatever  the  sect  may  be,  leave  the 
unfortunate  })eople  who  have  listened  to  their  doctrines,  and 
who  have  not  the  opportunity,  ov  the  fieiy  versatilit}^  of  belief, 
which  carries  their  teachers  from  one  creed  to  another,  leaving 
only  exploded  lies  and  useless  recantations  behind  them ! I 
wish  the  State  would  make  a law  that  one  individual  should  not 


mada:\ie  sAxVD. 


213 


be  iillowed  to  preach  more  than  one  doctrine  in  his  life,  or,  at 
any  rate,  should  be  soundly  corrected  for  eveiy  change  of  creed. 
How  many  charlatans  would  have  been  silenced,  — how  much 
conceit  would  have  been  kept  within  bounds,  — how  maiy  fools, 
who  are  dazzled  b}’  fine  sentences,  and  made  drunk  ly  declama- 
tion, would  have  remained  quiet  and  sober,  in  that  quiet  and 
sober  way  of  faith  which  tlieir  fathers  held  before  them.  How- 
ever, the  reader  will  be  glad  to  learn  that,  after  all  his  doubts 
and  sorrows,  S[)iridion  does  discover  the  truth  {the  truth,  what 
a wise  Spiridion!)  and  some  discretion  with  it;  for.  Inning 
found  among  his  monks,  who  are  dissolute,  superstitious  — and 
all  hate  him — one  only  being,  Fulgentius,  who  is  loving,  can- 
did, and  pious,  he  says  to  him,  — If  you  were  like  rnyself,  if 
the  first  want  of  yonr  nature  were,  like  mine,  to  know,  I would, 
without  hesitation,  lay  bare  to  yon  ny  entire  thoughts.  1 would 
make  you  drink  the  enp  of  truth,  which  I myself  have  filled  with 
so  many  tears,  at  the  risk  of  intoxicating  3’ou  with  the  draught. 
But  it  is  not  so,  alas  ! vou  are  made  to  love  rather  than  to  know, 
and  vour  heart  is  stronger  than  } our  intellect.  A"ou  are  at- 
tached to  Catholicism,  — 1 believe  so,  at  least, — b}'  bonds  of 
sentiment  which  }’ou  could  not  break  without  pain,  and  which, 
if  you  were  to  break,  the  truth  which  I could  la}’  bare  to  }'ou  in 
return  would  not  repav  .vou  for  Vvhat  you  had  sacrificed.  In- 
stead of  exalting,  it  would  crush  you,  very  likely.  It  is  a food 
too  strong  for  ordinary  men,  and  which,  when  it  does  not  re- 
vivify, smothers.  1 will  not,  then,  reveal  to  you  this  doctrine, 
which  is  the  triumph  of  1113"  life,  and-,  the  consolation  of  m3’  last 
days  ; because  it  might,  perhaps,  be  for  3 011  only  a cause  of 

mourning  and  despair Of  all  the  works  which  my  long 

studies  have  produced,  there  is  one  alone  which  I have  not  given 
to  the  flames  ; for  it  alone  is  complete.  In  that  you  will  find 
me  entire,  and  there  lies  the  truth.  And,  as  the  sage  has 
said  you  must  not  bury  your  treasures  in  a well,  I will  not  con- 
fide mine  to  the  brutal  stupidity’  of  these  monks.  But  as  this 
A^olume  should  only’  [)ass  into  hands  worthy  to  touch  it,  and  be 
laid  open  for  ey’es  that  are  callable  of  comprehending  its  my’S- 
teries,  I shall  exact  from  the  reader  one  condition,  which,  at 
the  same  time,  shall  be  a proof:  I shall  carry  it  with  me  to  the 
tomb,  in  order  that  he  who  one  day  shall  read  it,  may  have 
courage  enough  to  brave  the  vain  terrors  of  the  grave,  in  search- 
ing for  it  amid  the  dust  of  my  sepulchre.  As  soon  as  I am 

dead,  therefore,  place  this  writing  on  my  breast Ah  ! 

when  the  time  comes  for  reading  it,  I think  my’  Avithered  heart 
will  spring  up  again,  as  the  frozen  grass  at  the  return  of 


214 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


the  sun,  and  that,  from  the  midst  of  its  infinite  transforma- 
tions, my  spirit  will  enter  into  immediate  communication  with 
thine ! ” 

Does  not  the  reader  long  to  be  at  this  precious  manuscript, 
which  contains  the  truth  ; and  ought  he  not  to  be  very  much 
obliged  to  Mi's.  Sand,  for  being  so  good  as  to  print  it  for  him? 
We  leave  all  the  story  aside  : how  Fulgentius  had  not  the  spirit 
to  read  the  manuscript,  but  left  the  secret  to  Alexis  ; how 
Alexis,  a stern  old  philosophical  unbelieving  monk  as  ever ‘was, 
tried  in  vain  to  lift  up  the  gravestone,  but  was  taken  with  fever, 
and  obliged  to  forego  the  discovery  ; and  how,  finally,  Angel, 
his  disciple,  a youth  amiable  and  innocent  as  his  name,  was  the 
destined  person  who  brought  the  long-buried  treasure  to  light. 
Trembling  and  delighted,  the  pair  read  this  tremendous  manu- 
script OF  Spiridion. 

Will  it  be  believed,  that  of  all  the  dull,  vague,  windy  docu- 
ments that  moi'tal  ever  set  eyes  on,  this  is  the  dullest?  If  this 
be  absolute  truth,  a qnoi  bon  search  for  it,  since  Ave  have  long, 
long  had  the  jewel  in  our  possession,  or  since,  at  least,  it  has 
been  lield  up  as  such  by  every  sham  philosopher  who  has  had  a 
mind  to  pass  off  his  wares  on  the  i)ublic?  Hear  Spiridion  : — 

“ How  much  have  1 wept,  how  much  have  I suffered,  how 
much  have  I prayed,  how  much  have  1 labored,  before  I under- 
stood the  cause  and  the  aim  of  my  passage  on  this  earth  ! After 
many  incertitudes,  after  much  remorse,  after  man}"  scruples,  1 
have  comprehended  that  I ivas  a martyr  I — But  why  my  martyr- 
dom? said  I ; what  crime  did  1 commit  before  I was  born,  thus 
to  be  condemned  to  labor  and  groaning,  from  the  hour  when  I 
first  saw  the  day  up  to  that  when  I am  about  to  enter  into  the 
night  of  the  tomb  ? 

“At  last,  by  dint  of  imploring  God  — by  dint  of  inquiry 
into  the  history  of  man,  a ray  of  the  truth  has  descended  on 
my  brow,  and  the  shadows  of  the  past  have  melted  from  before 
my  eyes.  I have  lifted  a corner  of  the  curiam : I have  seen 
enough  to  know  that  my  life,  like  that  of  the  rest  of  the  human 
race,  has  been  a series  of  necessary  errors,  yet,  to  speak  more 
correctly,  of  incomplete  truths,  conducting,  more  or  less  slowly 
and  directly,  to  absolute  truth  and  ideal  perfection.  But  when 
will  they  rise  on  the  face  of  the  earth  — when  will  they  issue 
from  the  bosom  of  the  Divinity  — those  generations  who  shall 
salute  the  august  countenance  of  Truth,  and  proclaim  the  reign 
of  the  ideal  on  earth?  1 see  well  how  humanity  marches,  but 
I neither  can  see  its  cradle  nor  its  apotheosis.  Man  seems  t# 


IMADAME  SAND, 


21  n 

me  a transitoiy  race,  between  the  beast  and  the  angel ; bat  I 
know  not  how  many  eentnries  have  been  recjiiired,  that  he  might 
pass  from  the  state  of  brute  to  the  state  of  nani^  and  1 cannot  tell 
how  many  ages  are  necessary  that  he  may  pass  from  the  state  of 
man  to  the  state  of  angel! 

“ Yet  I hope,  and  1 feel  within  me,  at  the  approach  of  death, 
that  which  warns  me  that  great  destinies  await  Immanity.  Jn 
this  life  all  is  over  for  me.  Much  liave  I striven,  to  advance 
but  little  : I have  labored  without  ceasing,  and  have  done  almost 
nothing.  Y"et,  after  pains  immeasurable,  1 die  content,  for  I 
know  that  I have  done  all  1 could,  and  am  sure  that  the  little 
3 have  done  will  not  be  lost. 

‘‘•What,  then,  have  1 done?  this  wilt  thou  demand  of  me, 
man  of  a future  age,  who  will  seek  for  truth  in  the  testaments 
of  the  past.  Thou  who  wilt  be  no  more  Catholic  — no  more 
Christia'n,  thou  wilt  ask  of  the  [)Oor  monk,  lying  in  the  dust,  an 
account  of  his  life  and  death.  Thou  wouldst  know  wherefore 
were  his  vows,  why  his  austerities,  his  labors,  his  retreat,  his 
prayers  ? 

‘‘  You  who  turn  back  to  me,  in  order  that  I may  guide  3*011 
on  3*our  road,  and  that  3’ou  may  arrive  more  quickl3^  at  the  goal 
which  it  has  not  been  m3*  lot  to  attain,  pause,  3*et,  for  a mo- 
ment, and  look  upon  the  past  history  of  humanity.  You  will 
sec  that  its  fate  has  been  ever  to  choose  between  the  least  of 
two  evils,  and  ever  to  commit  great  faults  in  order  to  avoid 
others  still  greater.  You  will  see  ....  on  one  side,  the 
heathen  mythology,  that  debased  the  spirit,  in  its  efforts  to 
deily  the  flesh  ; on  the  other,  the  austere  Christian  principle, 
that  debased  the  flesh  too  much,  in  order  to  raise  the  worship 
of  the  spirit.  Y"ou  will  see,  afterwards,  how  the  religion  of 
Christ  embodies  itself  in  a church,  and  raises  itself  a generous 
democratic  power  against  the  tyranny  of  princes.  Later  still, 
3*011  will  see  how  that  power  has  attained  its  end,  and  passed 
beyond  it.  Y^ou  will  see  it,  having  chained  and  conquered 
princes,  league  itself  with  them,  in  order  to  oppress  the  people, 
and  seize  on  temporal  power.  Schism,  then,  raises  up  against 
it  the  standard  of  revolt,  and  preaches  the  bold  and  legitimate 
principle  of  liberty  of  conscience  : but,  also,  you  will  see  how 
this  libert3"  of  conscience  brings  religious  anarcly^  in  its  train  ; 
or,  worse  still,  religious  indifference  and  disgust.  And  if  3-our 
soul,  shattered  in  the  tempestuous  changes  which  yon  behold 
humanity  undergoing,  would  strike  out  for  itself  a passage 
through  the  rocks,  amidst  which,  like  a frail  bark,  lies  tossing 
trembling  truth,  3*011  will  be  embarrassed  to  choose  between  the 


21G 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


new  philosophers  — who,  in  preaching  tolerance,  destro}"  re- 
ligious and  social  unity  — and  the  last  Christians,  who,  to  pre- 
serve societ}',  that  is,  religion  and  philosophy,  are  obliged  to 
brave  the  principle  of  toleration.  Man  of  truth!  to  whom  I 
address,  at  once,  m3"  instruction  and  m3"  justification,  at  the 
time  when  3^011  shall  live,  the  science  of  truth  no  doubt  will 
have  advanced  a step.  Think,  then,  of  all  your  fathers  have 
suffered,  as,  bending  beneath  the  weight  of  their  ignorance  and 
uncertaint3",  the3"  have  traversed  the  desert  across  which,  with 
so  much  pain,  they  have  conducted  thee  ! And  if  the  pride  of 
thv  3’oung  learning  shall  make  thee  contemplate  the  petty 
strifes  in  which  our  life  has  been  consumed,  pause  and  tremble, 
as  you  think  of  that  which  is  still  unknown  to  3’ourself,  and  of 
the  judgment  that  3"Our  descendants  will  pass  on  3"ou.  Think 
of  this,  and  learn  to  respect  all  those  who,  seeking  their  way  in 
all  sincerit3",  have  wandered  from  the  path,  frightened  b3"  the 
storm,  and  sorely"  tried  by- the  severe  hand  of  the  All-Powerful. 
Think  of  this,  and  prostrate  yourself ; for  all  these,  even  the 
most  mistaken  among  them,  are  saints  and  martyrs. 

Without  their  conquests  and  their  defeats,  thou  wert  in 
darkness  still.  Yes,  their  failures,  their  errors  even,  have  a 

right  to  3"our  respect;  for  man  is  weak Weep  then, 

for  us  obscure  travellers  — unknown  victims,  who,  by  our  mor- 
tal sufferings  and  unheard-of  labors,  have  prepared  the  way 
before  you.  Pity  me,  who  have  passionately"  loved  justice,  and 
})erseveringly  sought  for  truth,  only  opened  my"  ey-es  to  shut 
them  again  for  ever,  and  saw  that  J had  been  in  vain  endeav- 
oring to  sup[)ort  a ruin,  to  take  refuge  in  a vault  of  which  the 
foundations  were  worn  away.”  .... 

The  rest  of  the  book  of  Spiridion  is  made  up  of  a history  of 
the  rise,  progress,  and  (what  our  philosopher  is  pleased  to  call) 
decay-  of  Christianity-  — of  an  assertion,  that  the  “doctrine  of 
Christ  is  incomplete  that  “Christ  may",  nevertheless,  take 
his  place  in  the  Pantheon  of  divine  men  ! ” and  of  a long,  dis- 
gusting, absurd,  and  impious  vision,  in  which  the  Saviour, 
Closes,  David,  and  PHijah  are  represented,  and  in  which  Christ 
is  made  to  say — “ fVe  are  all  Messiahs^  when  we  wish  to  bring 
the  reign  of  truth  upon  earth  ; we  are  all  Christs,  when  we 
suffer  for  it ! ” 

And  this  is  the  ultimatum,  the  supreme  secret,  the  absolute 
truth  ! and  it  has  been  published  by-  Mrs.  Sand,  for  so  many 
napoleons  per  sheet,  in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes ; and  the 
Deux  IMondes  are  to  abide  by  it  for  the  future.  After  having 
attained  it,  are  we  a whit  wiser?  “Man  is  between  an  angel 


MADAME  SAND. 


211 


and  a beast : I don’t  know  how  long  it  is  since  he  was  a brute 
— I can’t  say  Iiow  long  it  will  be  before  he  is  an  angel.”  Think 
of  people  living  by  their  wits,  and  living  by  such  a wit  as  this  ! 
Think  of  the  state  of  mental  debauch  and  disease  which  must 
liave  been  passed  through,  ere  such  words  could  be  wi’itten, 
and  could  be  popular ! 

When  a man  leaves  our  dismal,  smoky  London  atmos[)here, 
and  breathes,  instead  of  coal-smoke  and  yellow  log,  this  bi-ight, 
clear,  French  air,  he  is  quite  intoxicated  by  it  at  first,  and  feels 
a glow  in  his  blood,  and  a joy  in  his  s[)irits,  which  scarcely 
thrice  a }'ear,  and  then  only  at  a distance  from  London,  he 
can  attain  in  England.  Is  the  intoxication,  I wonder,  i)erma- 
neut  among  the  natives?  and  may  we  not  account  for  the  ten 
thousand  frantic  freaks  of  these  i)co[)le  l)y  the  peculiar  influence 
of  French  air  and  sun?  The  i)hiloso})hers  are  from  night  to 
morning  drunk,  the  politicians  are  drunk,  the  literary  men  reel 
and  stagger  from  one  absurdit}'  to  another,  and  how  shall  we 
understand  their  vagaries?  Let  us  suppose,  charital)ly,  that 
Madame  Sand  had  inhaled  a more  than  ordinarv  quantit}'  of 
this  laughing  gas  when  she  wrote  for  us  this  precious  manu- 
script of  Sph'idion.  That  great  destinies  are  in  prospect  for 
the  human  race  we  may  fanc}^  without  her  ladyship’s  word  for 
it : but  more  liberal  than  she,  and  having  a little  retrospective 
eharit}',  as  well  as  that  easj^  prospective  benevolence  which 
Mrs.  Sand  adopts,  let  us  tiy  and  think  there  is  some  hope  for 
our  fathers  (who  were  nearer  brutality  than  ourselves,  accord- 
ing to  the  Sandean  creed),  or  else  there  is  a very  poor  chance 
for  us,  who,  great  t)hilosophers  as  we  are,  are  }’et,  alas  ! far 
removed  from  that  angelic  consummation  which  all  must  wish 
for  so  devoutl3\  She  cannot  say — is  it  not  extraordinaiy  ? — 
how  many  centuries  have  been  necessary  before  man  could  pass 
from  the  brutal  state  to  his  present  condition,  or  how  man\^ 
ages  will  be  required  ere  we  ma}^  pass  from  the  state  of  man  to 
the  state  of  angels?  What  the  deuce  is  the  use  of  chronology 
or  philosophy?  We  were  beasts,  and  we  can’t  tell  when  oiu 
tails  dropped  off : w^e  shall  be  angels  ; but  when  our  wings  are 
to  begin  to  sprout,  who  knows?  In  the  meantime,  O man  of 
genius,  follow  our  counsel : lead  an  eas}"  life,  don’t  stick  at 
trifles  ; never  mind  about  datydii  is  onl}'  made  for  slaves  ; if  the 
world  reproach  you,  reproach  the  world  in  return,  }’ou  have  a 
good  loud  tongue  in  ^^our  head  : if  your  straight-laced  morals 
injure  3'our  mental  respiration,  fling  off  the  old-fashioned  stag’s, 
and  leave  3’our  free  limbs  to  rise  and  fall  as  Nature  pleases ; 
and  when  you  have  grown  prett3^  sick  of  your  libertjy  and  3^et 


218 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK, 


unfit  to  return  to  restraint,  curse  the  world,  and  scorn  it,  and  be 
miserable,  like  m}^  Lord  Byron  and  other  philosophers  of  his 
kidney  ; or  else  mount  a step  higher^  and,  with  conceit  still 
more  monstrous,  aud  mental  vision  still  more  wretchedly  de- 
bauched aud  weak,  begin  suddenly  to  find  3’ourself  afflicted 
with  a maudlin  compassion  for  the  human  race,  and  a desire  to 
set  them  right  after  your  own  fashion.  There  is  the  quarrel- 
some stage  of  drunkenness,  when  a man  can  as  yet  walk  and 
speak,  when  he  can  call  names,  and  fiing  plates  and  wine-glasses 
at  his  neighbor’s  head  with  a pretty  good  aim  ; after  this  comes 
the  pathetic  stage,  when  the  patient  becomes  wondrous  philan- 
thropic, and  weeps  wildh',  as  he  lies  in  the  guttei-,  and  fancies 
he  is  at  home  in  bed  — where  he  ought  to  be  ; but  this  is  an 
allegoiy. 

I don’t  wish  to  cany  this  aiy'  fiirther,  or  to  say  a word  in 
defence  of  the  doctrine  which  Mrs.  Dudevant  has  found  “in- 
complete — here,  at  least,  is  not  the  place  for  discussing  its 
merits,  aiy'  more  than  IMrs.  Sand’s  book  was  the  place  for  ex- 
posing, forsooth,  its  errors : our  business  is  011I3'  with  the  day 
and  the  new  novels,  and  the  clever  or  silly  people  who  write 
them.  Oh  ! if  they  but  knew  their  places,  and  would  keep  to 
them,  and  drop  their  absurd  philosophical  jargon  ! Not  all  the 
big  words  in  the  world  cau  make  IMrs.  Sand  talk  like  a philoso- 
pher : when  will  she  go  back  to  her  old  trade,  of  which  she  was 
the  very  ablest  practitioner  in  France? 

I should  have  been  glad  to  give  some  extracts  from  the  dra- 
matic and  descriptive  })arts  of  the  novel,  that  cannot,  in  point 
of  style  and  beautjg  be  praised  too  highly.  One  must  sufflce,  — 
it  is  the  descent  of  Alexis  to  seek  that  unluck3'  manuscript, 
Spiridion. 

“ It  seemed  to  me,”  he  begins,  “ that  the  descent  wms  eter- 
nal ; and  that  I was  burying  myself  in  the  depths  of  Erebus : 
at  last,  I reached  a level  place, — and  I heard  a mournful 
voice  deliver  these  words,  as  it  were,  to  the  secret  centre  of 
the  earth  — '•He  will  mount  that  ascent  no  more  ! ^ — Imme- 
diateh'  I heard  arise  towards  me,  from  the  depth  of  invisible 
al)3’sses,  a nyriad  of  formidable  voices  united  in  a strange 
chant  — '■  Let  ns  destroy  him!  Let  him  he  destroyed!  What  does 
he  here  among  the  dead"!  Let  him  be  delivered  bach  to  torture ! 
Let  him  be  yiven  again  to  life  ! ’ 

“ Then  a feeble  light  began  to  pierce  the  darkness,  and  I 
perceived  that  I stood  on  the  lowest  step  of  a staircase,  vast 
as  the  foot  of  a mountain.  Behind  me  were  thousands  of 
steps  of  lurid  iron  ; before  me,  nothing  but  a void  — an  abyss, 


MADAME  SAND> 


219 


and  ether ; the  blue  gloom  of  midriight  beneath  my  feet,  as 
above  my  head.  I became  delirious,  and  quitting  that  stair- 
case, which  metliought  it  was  im[)ossible  for  me  to  reascend, 
I sprung  forth  into  the  void  with  an  execration.  But,  imme- 
diately, when  1 had  uttered  the  curse,  the  void  began  to  be 
lilled  witli  forms  and  colors,  and  1 presently  perceived  that  1 
was  in  a vast  gallery,  along  which  1 advanced,  trembling. 
There  was  still  darkness  round  me  ; but  the  hollows  of  the 
vaults  gleamed  with  a red  light,  and  showed  me  the  strange 
and  hideous  forms  of  their  building I did  not  dis- 

tinguish the  nearest  objects  ; but  those  towards  which  1 ad- 
vanced assumed  an  appearance  more  ami  more  ominous,  and 
my  terror  increased  with  every  step  1 took.  The  enormous 
pillars  which  supported  the  vault,  and  the  tracery  thereof 
itself,  were  figures  of  men,  of  supernatural  stature,  delivered 
to  tortures  without  a name.  Some  liu ng  by  their  feet,  and, 
locked  in  the  coils  of  monstrous  serpents,  clenched  their  teeth 
in  the  marble  of  the  pavement ; others,  lasteued  by  their 
waists,  were  dragged  upwards,  these  by  their  feet,  those  by 
their  heads,  towards  capitals,  wliei-e  other  ligures  stooped 
towards  them,  eager  to  torment  them.  Other  [lillars,  again, 
represented  a struggling  mass  of  ligures  devouring  one  another  ; 
each  of  which  onh'  otfered  a trunk  severed  to  the  knees  or  to 
the  shoulders,  the  fierce  heads  whei'cof  retained  life  enough  to 
'^eize  and  devour  that  which  was  near  them.  There  were  some 
who,  half  hanging  down,  agonized  themselves  by  attempting, 
• witli  tluur  upper  limbs,  to  flay  the  lower  moiety  of  their  bodies, 
which  droo[)ed  from  the  columns,  or  were  attached  to  the  ped- 
estals ; and  others,  who,  in  their  fight  wiih  each  other,  were 
dragged  along  by  morsels  of  flesh, — gras[)ing  which,  they 
clung  to  each  other  with  a countenance  of  uns[)eakal)le  hate  and 
agoiw.  Along,  or  rather  in  place  of,  the  frieze,  there  were  on 
either  side  a range  of  unclean  beings,  wearing  the  human  form, 
but  of  a loathsome  ugliness,  busied  in  tearing  Imman  corpses  to 
pieces  — in  feasting  upon  their  limbs  and  entrails.  From  the 
vault,  instead  of  bosses  and  pendants,  hung  the  crushed  and 
wounded  forms  of  children  ; as  if  to  escape  these  eaters  of  man’s 
flesh,  they  would  throw  themselves  downwards,  and  be  dashed 
to  pieces  on  the  pavement The  silence  and  motion- 

lessness of  the  whole  added  to  its  awfulness.  I became  so  faint 
with  terror,  that  I stopped,  and  would  fain  have  returned.  But 
at  that  moment  I heard,  from  the  depths  of  the  gloom  through 
which  1 had  passed,  confused  noises,  like  those  of  a multitude  on 
its  march.  And  the  sounds  soon  became  more  distinct,  and  the 


220 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


clamor  fiercer,  and  the  steps  came  hurrying  on  tumultuously  — 
at  every  new  burst  nearer,  more  violent,  more  threatening.  I 
thought  that  I was  pursued  b}"  this  disorderly  crowd ; and  I » 
strove  to  advance,  liurrying  into  the  midst  of  those  dismal  sculp- 
tures. Then  it  seemed  as  if  those  figures  began  to  heave, — and 
to  sweat  blood,  — and  their  beadv  e3*es  to  move  in  their  sockets. 

At  once  I beheld  that  the}^  were  all  looking  upon  me,  that  they 
were  all  leaning  towards  me,  — some  with  frightful  derision, 
others  with  furious  aversion,  h^veiy  arm  was  raised  against  me, 
and  they  made  as  though  the}"  would  crush  me  with  the  quivering 
limbs  the}’  had  torn  one  from  the  other.”  .... 

It  is,  indeed,  a pity  that  the  poor  fellow  gave  himself  the 
trouble  to  go  down  into  damp,  unwholesome  graves,  for  the 
purpose  of  fetching  up  a few  trumpery  sheets  of  manuscript ; 
and  if  the  public  has  been  rather  tired  with  their  contents,  and 
is  (hsposed  to  ask  why  Mrs.  Sand’s  religious  or  irreligious 
notions  are  to  be  brought  forward  to  people  who  are  quite  sat- 
isfied with  their  own,  we  can  only  say  that  this  lady  is  the 
representative  of  a vast  class  of  her  countrymen,  whom  the 
wits  and  philosophers  of  the  eighteenth  century  have  brought 
to  this  condition.  The  leaves  of  the  Diderot  and  Rousseau 
ti’ee  have  produced  this  goodly  fruit : here  it  is,  ripe,  bursting, 
and  ready  to  fall ; — and  how  to  fall  ? Heaven  send  that  it 
may  drop  easily,  for  all  can  see  that  the  tiue  is  come. 


THE  CASE  OP  PEYTEL 


IN  A LETTER  TO  EDWARD  BRIEFLESS,  ESQUIRE,  OF  PUMP 
COURT,  TEMPLE. 


Paris,  November,  1839. 

My  dear  Briefless,  — Two  months  since,  when  the  act  of 
accusation  first  appeared,  containing  tlie  sum  of  the  charges 
against  Sebastian  Peytel,  all  Paris  was  in  a fervor  on  the  subject. 
The  man’s  trial  speedily  followed,  and  kept  for  three  days  the 
public  interest  wound  up  to  a painful  point.  He  was  found 
guilty  of  double  murder  at  the  beginning  of  September ; and, 
since  that  time,  what  with  Maroto’s  disaffection  and  Turkish 
news,  we  have  had  leisure  to  forget  Monsieur  Peytel,  and  to 
occupy  ourselves  with  n vkov.  Perhaps  Monsieur  de  Balzac 
helped  to  smother  what  little  sparks  of  interest  might  still  have 
remained  for  the  murderous  notary.  Balzac  put  forward  a 
letter  in  his  favor,  so  very  long,  so  very  dull,  so  very  pompous, 
promising  so  much,  and  performing  so  little,  that  the  Parisian 
public  gave  up  Peytel  and  his  case  altogether ; nor  was  it 
until  to-day  that  some  small  feeling  w^as  raised  concerning  him, 
when  the  newspapers  brought  the  account  how  Peytel’s  head 
had  been  cut  off  at  Bourg. 

lie  had  gone  through  the  usual  miserable  ceremonies  and 
delays  which  attend  what  is  called,  in  this  countiy,  the  march 
of  justice.  He  had  made  his  appeal  to  the  Court  of  Cassation, 
which  had  taken  time  to  consider  the  verdict  of  the  Provincial 
Court,  and  had  confirmed  it.  He  had  made  his  appeal  for 
mercy  ; his  poor  sister  coming  up  all  the  way  from  Bourg  (a 
sad  journey,  poor  thing !)  to  have  an  interview  with  the  King, 
who  had  refused  to  see  her.  Last  Monday  morning,  at  nine 
o’clock,  an  hour  before  Peytel’s  breakfast,  the  Greflfier  of  As- 
size Court,  in  company  with  the  Cure  of  Bourg,  waited  on 
him,  and  informed  him  that  he  had  only  three  hours  to  live. 
At  twelve  o’clock,  Pe3'tel’s  head  was  off  his  body:  an  execu- 


222 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


tioner  from  L^^ons  had  come  over  the  night  before,  to  assist 
the  professional  throat-cutter  of  Bourg. 

I am  not  going  to  entertain  3'oa  with  any  sentimental  lam- 
entations for  this  scoundrel’s  fate,  or  to  declare  m3"  belief  in 
his  innocence,  as  Monsieur  de  Balzac  has  done.  As  far  as 
moral  conviction  can  go,  the  man’s  guilt  is  prettv  clearh' 
brouglithome  to  him.  But  au3'  man  who  has  read  the  Causes 
Celebrcs,”  knows  that  men  have  been  convicted  and  executed 
upon  evidence  ten  times  more  powerful  than  that  which  was 
brought  against  Pe3’tel.  llis  own  account  of  his  horrible 
case  may  be  true  ; there  is  nothing  adduced  in  the  evidence 
which  is  strong  enough  to  overthrow  it.  It  is  a serious  privi- 
lege, God  knows,  that  societ3’  takes  upon  itself,  at  aii3^  time, 
to  de[)rive  one  of  God’s  creatures  of  existence.  But  when  the 
slightest  doubt  remains,  what  a tremendous  risk  does  it  incur ! 
In  England,  thank  heaven,  the  law  is  more  wise  and  more 
merciful : an  English  jury  would  never  have  taken  a man’s 
blood  u})on  such  testimou3’ : an  English  judge  and  Crown  advo- 
cate would  never  have  acted  as  these  hh*enchmen  have  done  ; 
the  latter  inhaming  the  public  mind  b3'  exaggerated  appeals  to 
their  passions : the  former  seeking,  in  every  way,  to  draw  con- 
fessions from  the  prisoner,  to  perplex  and  confound  him,  to  do 
away,  bv  fierce  cross-questioning  and  bitter  remarks  from  the 
bench,  with  any  effect  that  his  testimoiw  might  have  on  the 
juiy.  I don’t  mean  to  say  that  judges  and  lawyers  have  been 
more  violent  and  inquisitorial  against  the  unhapp3'  Peytel  than 
against  any  one  else  ; it  is  the  fashion  of  the  countr3' : a man 
is  guilty  until  he  proves  himself  to  be  innocent ; and  to  batter 
down  his  defence,  if  he  have  anN',  there  arc  the  law3’ers,  with 
all  their  horrible  ingenuit3',  and  their  captivating  passionate 
eloquence.  It  is  hard  thus  to  set  the  skilful  and  tried  cham- 
pions of  the  law  against  men  unused  to  this  kind  of  combat ; 
na3',  give  a man  all  the  legal  aid  that  he  can  purchase  or  pro- 
cure, still,  by  this  plan,  vou  take  him  at  a cruel,  unmanlv  dis- 
advantage ; he  has  to  fight  against  the  law,  clogged  with  the 
dreadful  weight  of  his  i)resupposed  guilt.  Thank  God  that, 
in  England,  things  are  not  managed  so. 

However,  I am  not  about  to  entertain  you  with  ignorant 
disquisitions  about  the  law.  Pevtel’s  case  ma3',  nevertheless, 
interest  you  ; for  the  tale  is  a verv  stirring  and  mvsterious  one  ; 
and  vou  may  see  how  easv  a thing  it  is  for  a man’s  life  to  be 
talked  away  in  France,  if  ever  he  should  ha[)pen  to  fall  under 
the  siis})ieion  of  a crime.  The  French  ‘"Acte  d’accusation  ” 
begins  in  the  following  manner  : — 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEL. 


223 


Of  all  the  events  which,  in  these  latter  times,  have  afflicted 
the  department  of  the  Ain,  there  is  none  which  has  caused  a 
more  profound  and  livel>'  sensation  than  the  tragical  death  of 
the  lad}',  Fclicite  Alcazar,  wife  of  Sebastian  Benedict  Peytel, 
notary,  at  Belley.  At  the  end  of  October,  1838,  Madame 
1 Ay  tel  quitted  that  town,  with  her  husband,  and  their  ser^'ant 
Louis  Key,  in  order  to  [>ass  a few  days  at  jMacon  : at  midnight,' 
the  inhabitants  of  Bellcw  were  suddenly  awakened  by  the  arrival 
of  Monsieur  Peytel,  by  his  cries,  and  hy  the  signs  which  he  ex- 
hibited of  the  most  lively  agitation  : he  implored  the  succors  of 
all  the  physicians  in  the  town  ; knocked  violentl}'  at  their  doors  ; 
rung  at  the  bells  of  their  houses  with  a sort  of  frenzy,  and 
announced  that  his  wife,  stretched  out,  and  dying,  in  his  car- 
riage, had  just  been  shot,  on  the  L}'ons  road,  by  his  domestic, 
whose  life  lAytcl  himself  had  taken. 

At  this  recital  a number  of  i)ersons  assembled,  and  what  a 
spectacle  was  i)resented  to  their  eyes. 

“ A young  woman  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a carriage,  deprived 
of  life  ; her  whole  body  was  wet,  and  seemed  as  if  it  had  just 
been  plunged  into  the  water.  She  appeared  to  l)e  severely 
wounded  in  the  face  ; and  her  garments,  which  were  raised  up, 
in  spite  of  the  cold  and  rainy  weather,  left  the  upper  part  of 
her  knees  almost  entirely  exposed.  At  the  sight  of  this  half- 
naked  and  inanimate  body,  all  the  spectators  were  affected. 
People  said  that  the  first  duty  to  pay  to  a d}’ing  woman  was,  to 
preserve  her  from  the  cold,  to  cover  her.  A physician  ex- 
amined the  body  ; he  declared  that  all  remedies  were  useless  ; 
that  Madame  Peytel  was  dead  and  cold. 

“The  entreaties  of  Peytel  were  redoubled;  he  demanded 
fresh  succors,  and,  giving  no  heed  to  the  fatal  assurance  which 
had  just  been  given  him,  required  that  all  the  physicians  in  the 
place  should  be  sent  for.  A scene  so  strange  and  so  melan- 
choly ; the  incoherent  account  given  by  Peytel  of  the  murder  of 
his  wife  ; his  extraordinary  movements  ; and  the  avowal  which 
he  continued  to  make,  that  he  had  despatched  the  murderer, 
Key,  with  strokes  of  his  hammer,  excited  the  attention  of 
Lieutenant  Wolf,  commandant  of  gendarmes : that  officer 

gave  orders  for  the  immediate  arrest  of  Peytel : but  the  latter 
threw  himself  into  the  arms  of  a friend,  who  interceded  for 
him,  and  begged  the  police  not  immediately  to  seize  upon  his 
person. 

“ The  corpse  of  Madame  Peytel  was  transported  to  her 
apartment;  the  bleeding  body  of  the  domestic  was  likewise 


224 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


brought  from  the  road,  where  it  la}' ; and  Peytel,  asked  to 
explain  the  circumstance,  did  so/'  . . . . 

Now,  as  there  is  little  reason  to  tell  the  reader,  when  an 
English  counsel  has  to  prosecute  a prisoner  on  the  part  of  the 
Crown  for  a capital  offence,  he  produces  the  articles  of  his  accu- 
sation in  the  most  moderate  terms,  and  especially  warns  the  jury 
to  give  the  accused  person  the  benefit  of  every  possible  doubt 
that  the  evidence  may  give,  or  may  leave.  See  how  these 
things  are  managed  in  France,  and  how  differently  the  French 
counsel  for  the  Crown  sets  about  his  work. 

He  first  prepares  his  act  of  accusation,  the  opening  of  which 
we  have  just  read  ; it  is  published  six  days  before  the  trial,  so 
that  mil  unimpassioned,  unprejudiced  jury  has  ample  time  to 
study  it,  and  to  form  its  opinions  accordingly,  and  to  go  into 
court  with  a happy,  just  prepossession  against  the  prisoner. 

Read  the  first  part  of  the  Peytel  act  of  accusation ; it  is  as 
turgid  and  declamatory  as  a bad  romance  ; and  as  inflated  as  a 
newspaper  document,  by  an  unlimited  penny-a-liner:  — The 
department  of  the  Ain  is  in  a dreadful  state  of  excitement ; 
the  inhabitants  of  Belley  come  trooping  from  their  beds,  — and 
what  a sight  do  they  behold  ; — a young  woman  at  the  bottom 
of  a carriage,  toiite  riiuselante , just  out  of  a river  ; her  garments, 
in  spite  of  the  cold  and  rain,  raised,  so  as  to  leave  the  upper 
part  of  her  knees  entirely  exposed,  at  which  all  the  beholders 
were  affected,  and  cried,  that  the  first  duty  was  to  cover  her 
from  the  cold.”  This  settles  the  case  at  once  ; the  first  duty  of 
a man  is  to  cover  the  legs  of  the  sufferer ; the  second  to  call  for 
help.  The  eloquent  “ Substitut  du  Procureur  du  Roi  ” has  pre- 
judged the  case,  in  the  course  of  a few  sentences.  He  is  put- 
ting his  readers,  among  whom  his  future  jury  is  to  be  found, 
into  a proper  state  of  mind  ; he  works  on  them  with  pathetic 
description,  just  as  a romance-writer  would  : the  rain  pours  in 
torrents  ; it  is  a dreary  evening  in  November ; the  young  crea- 
ture’s situation  is  neatly  described  ; the  distrust  which  entered 
into  the  breast  of  the  keen  old  officer  of  gendarmes  strongly 
painted,  the  suspicions  w'hich  might,  or  might  not,  have  been 
entertained  by  the  inhabitants,  eloquently  argued.  How  did 
the  advocate  know  that  the  people  had  such?  did  all  the  by- 
standers say  aloud,  “ I suspect  that  this  is  a case  of  murder  by 
Monsieur  Peytel,  and  that  liis  story  about  the  domestic  is  all 
deception  ? ” or  did  they  go  off  to  the  mayor,  and  register  their 
suspicion?  or  w’as  the  advocate  there  to  hear  them?  Not  he; 
but  he  paints  you  the  whole  scene,  as  though  it  had  existed, 
and  gives  full  accounts  of  suspicions,  as  if  they  had  been 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEL. 


225 


iacts,  positive,  patent,  staring,  that  everybody  could  see  and 
swear  to. 

Having  thus  primed  his  audience,  and  prepared  them  for  the 
testimony  of  the  accused  party,  “ Now,”  says  he,  with  a fine 
show  of  justice,  “ let  us  liear  Monsieur  Pe^Tel ; ” and  that  wor- 
tli3^’s  narrative  is  given  as  follows  : — 

‘‘  He  said  that  he  had  left  Macon  on  the  31st  October,  at 
eleven  o’clock  in  the  morning,  in  order  to  return  to  Belle}’,  with 
his  wife  and  servant.  The  latter  drove,  or  led,  an  open  car ; 
he  himself  was  driving  his  wife  in  a four-wheeled  carriage, 
drawn  by  one  horse  : they  reached  Bourg  at  five  o’clock  in  the 
evening ; left  it  at  seven,  to  sleep  at  Pont  d’Ain,  where  they 
did  not  arrive  before  midnight.  During  the  journey,  Peytel 
thought  he  remarked  that  Rev  had  slackened  his  horse’s  pace. 
MTien  the}’  alighted  at  the  inn,  Peytel  bade  him  deposit  in 
his  chamber  7,500  francs,  which  he  carried  with  him  ; but  the 
domestic  refused  to  do  so,  saying  that  the  inn  gates  were 
secure,  and  there  was  no  danger.  Peytel  was,  therefore, 
obliged  to  cany  his  money  up  stairs  himself.  The  next  da}’, 
the  1st  November,  they  set  out  on  their  journe}’  again,  at  nine 
o’clock  in  the  morning ; Louis  did  not  come,  according  to 
custom,  to  take  his  master’s  orders.  They  arrived  at  Tenay 
about  three,  stopped  there  a couple  of  hours  to  dine,  and  it  was 
eight  o’clock  when  they  reached  the  bourg  of  Rossillon,  where 
they  waited  half  an  hour  to  bait  the  horses. 

As  they  left  Rossillon,  the  weather  became  bad,  and  the 
rain  began  to  fall : Peytel  told  his  domestic  to  get  a covering 
for  the  articles  in  the  open  chariot ; but  Rey  refused  to  do 
so,  adding,  in  an  ironical  tone,  that  the  weather  was  fine.  For 
some  days  past,  Peytel  had  remarked  that  his  servant  was 
gloomy,  and  scarcely  spoke  at  all. 

‘‘  After  they  had  gone  about  500  paces  beyond  the  bridge 
of  Andert,  that  crosses  the  river  Furans,  and  ascended  to  the 
least  steep  part  of  the  hill  of  Darde,  Peytel  cried  out  to  his 
servant,  who  was  seated  in  the  car,  to  come  down  from  it,  and 
finish  the  ascent  on  foot. 

“ At  this  moment  a violent  wind  was  blowing  from  the 
south,  and  the  rain  was  falling  heavily : Peytel  was  seated 
back  in  the  right  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  his  wife,  who  was 
close  to  him,  was  asleep,  with  her  head  on  his  left  shoulder. 
All  of  a sudden  he  heard  the  report  of  a fire-arm  (he  had 
seen  the  light  of  it  at  some  paces’  distance),  and  Madame 
Peytel  cried  out,  ‘'My  poor  husband,  take  your  pistols  the 
tiorse  was  frightened,  and  began  to  trot.  Peytel  immediately 


226 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


drew  the  pistol,  and  fired,  from  the  interior  of  the  carriage, 
upon  an  individual  whom  he  saw  running  by  the  side  of  the 
road. 

“ Not  knowing,  as  yet,  that  his  wife  had  been  hit,  he  jumped 
out  on  one  side  of  the  carriage,  while  Madame  Peytel  descended 
from  the  other ; and  he  fired  a second  pistol  at  his  domestic, 
Louis  Rey,  whom  he  had  just  recognized.  Redoubling  his  pace, 
he  came  up  with  Rey,  and  struck  him,  from  behind,  a blow  with 
the  hammer.  Rey  turned  at  this,  and  raised  up  his  arm  to 
strike  his  master  with  the  pistol  which  he  had  just  discharged 
at  him  ; but  Peytel,  more  quick  than  he,  gave  the  domestic  a 
blow  with  the  hammer,  which  felled  him  to  the  ground  (he  fell 
liis  face  forwards),  and  then  Peytel,  bestriding  the  bodjq 
despatched  him,  although  the  brigand  asked  for  mercy. 

He  now  began  to  think  of  his  wife  ; and  ran  back,  calling 
out  her  name  repeatedly' , and  seeking  for  her,  in  vain,  on  both 
sides  of  the  road.  Arrived  at  the  bridge  of  Audert,  he  recog- 
nized his  wife,  stretched  in  a field,  covered  with  water,  which 
])ordered  the  Furans.  This  horrible  discovery  had  so  much  the 
more  astonished  him,  because  he  had  no  idea,  until  now,  that 
ms  wife  had  been  wounded : he  endeavored  to  draw  her  from 
the  water ; and  it  was  only  after  considerable  exertions  that  he 
was  enabled  to  do  so,  and  to  place  her,  with  her  face  towards 
the  ground,  on  the  side  of  the  road.  Supposing  that,  here,  she 
would  be  sheltered  from  any'  farther  danger,  and  believing,  as 
yet,  that  she  was  only'  w'ounded,  he  determined  to  ask  for  help 
at  a lone  house,  situated  on  the  road  towards  Rossillon  ; and  at 
this  instant  he  perceived,  without  at  all  being  able  to  explain 
how,  that  his  horse  had  followed  him  back  to  the  spot,  having 
turned  back  of  its  own  accord,  from  the  road  to  Belley'. 

‘‘  The  house  at  which  he  knocked  was  inhabited  by  two  men, 
of  the  name  of  Thannet,  father  and  son,  who  opened  the  door 
to  him,  and  whom  he  entreated  to  come  to  his  aid,  saying  that 
his  wife  had  just  been  assassinated  bv  his  servant.  The  elder 
Thannet  a[)i)roached  to.  and  examined  the  body',  and  told  Pey- 
tel  that  it  was  quite  dead  ; he  and  his  son  took  up  the  corpse, 
and  placed  it  in  the  bottom  of  the  carriage,  which  they  all 
mounted  themselves,  and  pursued  their  route  to  Belley.  In 
order  to  do  so,  they  had  to  pass  by  Rey’s  body',  on  the  road, 
which  Peytel  wished  to  crush  under  the  wheels  of  his  carriage. 
It  was  to  rob  him  of  7,500  francs,  said  Peytel,  that  the  attack 
had  been  made.” 

Our  friend,  the  Procureur’s  Substitut,  has  dropped,  here,  the 
eloquent  and  pathetic  style  altogether,  and  only  gives  the  un- 


THE  CASE  OF  FEYTEL. 


227 


lucky  prisoner’s  narrative  in  the  baldest  and  most  unimaginative 
style.  How  is  a juiy  to  listen  to  such  a fellow?  they  ought  to 
condemn  liim,  if  but  for  making  such  an  uninteresting  state- 
ment. AVhy  not  lia\e  heli)ed  poor  Fey  tel  with  some  of  those 
rhetorm.nl  graces  which  have  been  so  plentifull}^  bestowed  in  the 
opening  part  ol'  the  act  of  accusation?  He  might  have  said  : — 

“ ]\Iousieur  Fi'vtel  is  an  eminent  notary  at  Belief’ ; he  is  a 
man  distinguished  for  his  literary  and  scientilic*  ac([uirements  ; 
he  has  lived  long  in  the  best  society  of  the  capital ; he  had  been 
but  a few  months  married  to  that  young  and  unfortunate  lady, 
whose  loss  has  plunged  her  bereaved  husband  into  despair — ■ 
almost  into  madness.  Some  earh'  ditferences  had  marked,  it  is 
true,  the  commencement  of  their  union  ; but  these,  which,  as 
can  be  proved  by  evidence,  were  almost  all  the  unhap[)y  lady’s 
fault,  — had  happih'  ceased,  to  give  [)lace  to  sentiments  far 
more  delightful  and  tender.  Gentlemen,  IMadame  Peytel  bore 
in  her  bosom  a sweet  pledge  of  future  concord  between  herself 
and  her  husband : in  three  brief  months  she  was  to  become  a 
mother. 

“ In  the  exercise  of  his  honorable  profession,  — in  w'hich,  to 
succeed,  a man  must  not  only  have  high  talents,  but  undoubted 
probity,  — and,  gentlemen.  Monsieur  Fej'tel  did  succeed  — did 
inspire  respect  and  confidence,  as  you,  his  neighbors,  well 
know ; — in  the  exercise,  1 sa^g  of  his  high  calling.  Monsieur 
Peytel,  towards  the  end  of  October  last,  had  occasion  to  make 
a journey  in  the  neighborhood,  and  visit  some  of  his  many 
clients. 

“ He  travelled  in  his  own  carriage,  his  3'oung  wife  beside 
him.  Does  this  look  like  want  of  atfection,  gentlemen?  or  is 
it  not  a mark  of  love  — of  love  and  paternal  care  on  his  part 
towards  the  being  with  whom  his  lot  in  life  was  linked,  — the 
mother  of  his  coming  child,  — the  3^oung  girl,  who  had  every- 
thing to  gain  from  the  union  with  a man  of  his  attainments  of 
intellect,  his  kind  temper,  his  great  experience,  and  his  high 
position?  In  this  manner  they  travelled,  side  by  side,  lovingl^^ 
together.  Monsieur  Pe}'tel  was  not  a lawver  mei'ely,  but  a man 
of  letters  and  varied  learning;  of  the  noble  and  sublime  science 
of  geology  he  was,  especialljg  an  ardent  devotee.” 

(Suppose,  here,  a short  panegyric  upon  geology.  Allude  to 
the  creation  of  this  might}"  world,  and  then,  naturally,  to  the 
Creator.  Fancy  the  conversations  w"hich  Peytel,  a religious 
man,*  might  have  with  his  young  wife  upon  the  subject.) 

“ Monsieur  Peytel  had  lately  taken  into  his  service  a man 

* He  always  went  to  mass ; it  is  in  the  evidence. 


228 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


named  Louis  Key.  Ke}^  was  a foundling,  and  had  passed  maiij 
years  in  a regiment  — a sehool,  gentlemen,  where  much  besides 
bravery,  alas  ! is  taught ; naj',  where  the  spirit  which  familiar^ 
izes  one  with  notions  of  battle  and  death,  I fear,  may  familiarize 
one  with  ideas,  too,  of  murder.  Key,  a dashing  reckless  fellow, 
from  the  army,  had  lately  entered  Peytel’s  service ; was  treated 
by  him  with  the  most  singular  kindness ; accompanied  him 
(having  charge  of  another  vehicle)  upon  the  journey  before 
alluded  to  ; and  knew  that  his  master  carried  with  him  a consider- 
able sum  of  money ; for  a man  like  Re}'  an  enormous  sum,  7,500 
francs.  At  midnight  on  the  1st  of  November,  as  Madame  Pey- 
tel  and  her  husband  were  returning  home,  an  attack  was  made 
upon  their  carriage.  Remember,  gentlemen,  the  hour  at  which 
the  attack  was  made  ; remember  the  sum  of  money  that  was  in 
the  carriage  ; and  remember  that  the  Savoy  frontier  is  within  a 
league  of  the  spot  where  the  desperate  deed  was  done.” 

Now,  my  dear  Briefless,  ought  not  Monsieur  Procureur,  in 
common  justice  to  Peytel,  after  he  had  so  eloquently  proclaimed, 
not  the  facts,  but  the  suspicions,  which  weighed  against  that 
worth}',  to  have  given  a similar  florid  account  of  the  prisoner’s 
case?  Instead  of  this,  you  will  remark,  that  it  is  the  advocate’s 
endeavor  to  make  Peytel’s  statements  as  uninteresting  in  style 
as  possible ; and  then  he  demolishes  them  in  the  following 
way : — 

“ Scarcely  was  Peytel’s  statement  known,  when  the  common 
sense  of  the  public  rose  against  it.  Peytel  had  commenced  his 
story  upon  the  bridge  of  Andert,  over  the  cold  body  of  his  wife. 
On  the  2nd  November  he  had  developed  it  in  detail,  in  the 
presence  of  the  physicians,  in  the  [>resence  of  the  assembled 
neighbors  — of  the  persons  who,  on  the  day  previous  only,  were 
his  friends.  Finally,  he  had  completed  it  in  his  interrogatories, 
his  conversations,  his  writings,  and  letters  to  the  magistrates ; 
and  everywhere  these  words,  repeated  so  often,  were  only  re- 
ceived with  a painful  incredulity.  The  fact  was  that,  besides 
-the  singular  character  which  Peytel’s  ^ippearance,  attitude,  and 
talk  had  worn  ever  since  the  event,  there  was  in  his  narrative 
an  inexplicable  enigma ; its  contradictions  and  impossibilities 
were  such,  that  calm  persons  were  revolted  at  it,  and  that  even 
friendship  itself  refused  to  believe  it.” 

Thus  Mr.  Attorney  speaks,  not  for  himself  alone,  but  for  the 
whole  French  public  ; whose  opinions,  of  course,  he  knows. 
Peytel’s  statement  is  discredited  everywhere ; the  statement 
which  he  had  made  over  the  cold  body  of  his  wife  — the  mon- 
ster ! It  is  not  enough  simply  to  prove  that  the  man  committed 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEL. 


229 


the  murder,  but  to  make  the  jury  violently  angiy  against  him, 
and  eause  them  to  shudder  in  the  juiy-box,  as  he 'exposes  the 
horrid  details  of  tlie  crime. 

“ Justice,”  goes  on  Mr.  Substitute  (who  answers  for  the  feeF 
ings  of  everybod}'),  '"^disturbed  by  the  j>re-ocn(  pat  ions  of  yuhlic 
opinion^  commenced,  without  dehi}*,  the  most  active  researches. 
The  bodies  of  the  victims  were  submitted  to  the  investigations 
of  men  of  art ; the  wounds  and  projectiles  were  examined  ; the 
place  where  the  event  took  place  explored  witli  care.  The 
moi-ality  of  the  autlior  of  this  frightful  scene  became  the  object 
of  rigorous  examination  ; the  exiyeances  of  the  prisoner,  the 
forms  affected  by  him,  his  calculating  silence,  and  his  answers, 
coldly  insulting,  were  feeUe  obstacles  ; and  justice  at  length 
arrived,  b}’  its  prudence,  and  by  the  discoveries  it  made,  to  the 
most  cruel  point  of  cei  tainty.” 

You  see  that  a man’s  demeanor  is  here  made  a crime  against 
him  ; and  that  Mr.  Siil)stitutc'  wishes  to  consider  him  guilty, 
because  he  has  actually  the  audaciU'  lo  hold  his  tongue.  Now 
follows  a touching  description  of  the  domestic,  Louis  Rey  : — 

“ Louis  Re}’,  a child  of  the  Hospital  at  L}'ons,  was  confided, 
at  a very  early  age,  to  some  honest  country  people,  with  whom 
he  stayed  until  he  entered  the  army.  At  their  house,  and  dur- 
ing this  long  period  of  time,  his  conduct,  his  intelligence,  and 
the  sweetness  of  his  manners  were  such,  that  the  famil}’  of  his 
guardians  became  to  him  as  an  adopted  famil}’ ; and  his  de- 
parture caused  them  the  most  sincere  afiliction.  AVhen  Louis 
quitted  the  army,  he  returned  to  his  benefactors,  and  was  re- 
ceived as  a son.  The}'  found  him  just  as  they  had  ever  known 
him  ” (I  acknowledge  that  this  pathos  l)eats  my  humble  defence 
of  Peytel  entirely),  “■  except  that  he  had  learned  to  read  and 
write  ; and  the  certificates  of  his  commanders  proved  him  to  be 
a good  and  gallant  soldier. 

“The  necessity  of  creating  some  resources  feu*  himself, 
obliged  him  to  quit  his  friends,  and  to  enter  the  service  of 
Monsieur  de  Montrichard,  a lieutenant  of  gendarmerie,  from 
whom  he  received  fresh  testimonials  of  regard.  Louis,  it  is 
true,  might  have  a fondness  for  wine  and  a passion  for  women  ; 
but  he  had  been  a soldier,  and  these  faults  w'ere,  according  to 
the  witnesses,  amply  compensated  for  by  his  activity,  his  intel- 
ligence, and  the  agreeable  manner  in  which  he  performed  his 
service.  In  the  month  of  July,  1839,  Rey  quitted,  voluntarily, 
the  service  of  M.  de  Montrichard ; and  Peytel,  about  this 
period,  meeting  him  at  L}ons,  did  not  hesitate  to  attach  him 


230 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


to  his  service.  Whatever  ma}"  be  the  prisoner’s  present  iaiv 
guage,  it  is  certain  that  up  to  the  day  of  Louis’s  death,  he 
served  Pe3Tel  with  diligence  and  fidelity. 

More  than  once  his  master  and  mistress  spoke  well  of  him. 
Everybody  who  has  worked,  or  been  at  the  house  of  Madame 
Peytel,  has  spoken  in  praise  of  his  character ; and,  indeed,  it 
ma}^  be  said,  that  these  testimonials  were  general. 

“On  the  veiy  night  of  the  1st  of  November,  and  imme- 
diatelj'  after  the  catastrophe,  we  remark  how  Peytel  begins  to 
make  insinuations  against  his  servant ; and  how  artfulty,  in 
order  to  render  them  more  sure,  he  disseminates  them  through 
the  different  parts  of  his  narrative.  But,  in  the  course  of  the 
proceeding,  these  charges  have  met  with  a most  complete 
denial.  Thus  we  find  the  disobedient  servant  who,  at  Pont 
d’Ain,  refused  to  cany  the  mone3"-chest  to  his  master’s  room, 
under  the  pretext  that  the  gates  of  the  inn  were  closed  securel3^, 
occupied  with  tending  the  horses  after  their  long  journe3-  : 
meanwhile  Pe3*tel  w^as  standing  b3%  and  neither  master  nor 
servant  exchanged  a word,  and  the  witnesses  who  beheld 
them  both  have  borne  testimon3^  to  the  zeal  and  care  of  the 
domestic. 

“In  like  manner,  we  find  that  the  servant,  who  was  so 
remiss  in  the  morning  as  to  neglect  to  go  to  his  master  for 
orders,  was  read3"  for  departure  before  seven  o’clock,  and  had 
eagerl3'  informed  himself  whether  Monsieur  and  Madame  Pe3Tel 
were  awake  ; learning  from  the  maid  of  the  inn,  that  the3^  had 
ordered  nothing  for  their  breakfast.  This  man,  who  refused  to 
cany  with  him  a covering  for  the  car,  was,  on  the  contraiy, 
read3’  to  take  off  his  own  cloak,  and  with  it  shelter  articles  of 
small  value; -this  man,  who  had  been  for  many  da3"s  so  silent 
and  gloony",  gave,  on  the  contraiy,  man3^  proofs  of  his  ga3^et3^ 
— almost  of  his  indiscretion,  speaking,  at  all  tlie  inns,  in  terms 
of  praise  of  his  master  and  mistress.  The  waiter  at  the  inn  at 
Dauphin,  sa3's  he  was  a tall  3’oung  fellow,  mild  and  good- 
natured  ; ‘ we  talked  for  some  time  about  horses,  and  such 
things  ; he  seemed  to  be  perfectl3^  natural,  and  not  pre-occu- 
pied  at  all.’  At  Pont  d’Ain,  he  talked  of  his  being  a found- 
ling ; of  the  place  wdiere  he  had  been  brought  up,  and  where 
he  had  served  ; and  finally',  at  Rossillon,  an  hour  before  his 
death,  he  conversed  familiarl3’  with  the  master  of  the  port,  and 
spoke  on  indifferent  subjects. 

“All  Peytel’s  insinuations  against  his  servant  had  no  other 
end  than  to  show,  in  eveiy  point  of  Re3^’s  conduct,  the  behavior 
of  a man  who  was  premeditating  attack.  Of  what,  in  fact, 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEL. 


2S1 


does  he  accuse  him?  Of  wishing  to  rob  him  of  7,500  francs, 
and  of  having  had  recourse  to  assassination,  in  order  to  effect 
the  robbery.  But,  for  a premeditated  crime,  consider  what 
singular  improvidence  the  person  showed  who  had  determined 
on  committing  it ; what  folly  and  what  weakness  thei-e  is  iji  the 
execution  of  it. 

“ How  man}^  insurmountable  obstacles  are  there  in  the  wa\' 
of  committing  and  profiting  by  crime  ! On  leaving  Belley, 
Louis  Re}y  according  to  Peytel’s  statement,  knowing  that  his 
master  would  return  with  money,  provided  himsell*  with  a holster 
pistol,  which  Madame  Pe^del  had  once  before  perceived  among 
his  effects.  In  Peytel’s  cabinet  there  were  some  balls  ; four  of 
these  were  found  in  Re}’’s  trunk,  on  the  Gth  of  November. 
And,  in  order  to  commit  the  crime,  this  domestic  had  brought 
awa}"  with  him  a pistol,  and  no  ammunition  ; for  Pe^del  has 
informed  us  that  Re^',  an  hour  before  his  departure  from  Macon, 
purchased  six  balls  at  a gunsmith’s.  To  gain  his  point,  the 
assassin  must  immolate  his  victims  ; for  this,  he  has  only  one 
pistol,  knowing,  perfectly  well,  that  Peytel,  in  all  his  travels,  had 
two  on  his  person  ; knowing  that,  at  a late  hour  of  the  night, 
his  shot  might  fail  of  effect ; and  that,  in  this  case,  he  would  be 
left  to  the  mere}’  of  his  opponent. 

“The  execution  of  the  crime  is,  according  to  Peytel’s 
account,  still  more  singular.  Louis  does  not  get  off  the  carriage, 
until  Peytel  tells  him 'to  descend.  He  does  not  think  of  taking 
his  master’s  life  until  he  is  sure  that  the  latter  has  his  eyes 
open.  It  is  dark,  and  the  pair  arc  covered  in  one  cloak  ; and 
Rey  onl}"  fires  at  them  at  six  paces’  distance  : he  fires  at  hazard, 
without  disquieting  himself  as  to  the  choice  of  his  victim  : and 
the  soldier,  who  was  bold  enough  to  undertake  this  double 
murder,  has  not  force  nor  courage  to  consummate  it.  He  flies, 
carrying  in  his  hand  a useless  whip,  with  a heavy  mantle  on 
his  shoulders,  in  spite  of  the  detonation  of  two  pistols  at  his 
ears,  and  the  rapid  steps  of  an  angiy  master  in  pursuit,  which 
ought  to  have  set  him  upon  some  better  means  of  escape.  And 
we  find  this  man,  full  of  youth  and  vigor,  l3'ing  with  his  face  to 
the  ground,  in  the  midst  of  a public  road,  falling  without  a 
struggle,  or  resistance,  under  the  blows  of  a hammer  ! 

“And  suppose  the  murderer  had  succeeded  in  his  criminal 
projects,  what  fruit  could  he  have  drawn  from  them  ? — Leaving, 
on  the  road,  the  two  bleeding  bodies  ; obliged  to  lead  two 
carriages  at  a time,  for  fear  of  discoverv  ; not  able  to  return 
himself,  after  all  the  pains  he  had  taken  to  speak,  at  every  place 
at  which  the3"  had  stopped,  of  the  money  which  his  master  was 


232 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


canying  with  him  ; too  prudent  to  appear  alone  at  Belle}' ; 
arrested  at  the  frontier,  by  the  excise  officers,  who  would  present 
an  impassable  barrier  to  him  till  morning,  — what  could  he  do, 
or  hope  to  do  ? The  examination  of  the  car  has  shown  that 
Rey,  at  the  moment  of  the  crime,  had  neither  linen,  nor  clothes, 
nor  effects  of  any  kind.  There  was  found  in  his  pockets,  when 
the  body  was  examined,  no  passport,  nor  certificate ; one  of 
his  pockets  contained  a ball,  of  large  calibre,  which  he  had 
shown,  in  play,  to  a girl,  at  the  inn  at  Macon,  a little  horn- 
handled  knife,  a snuff-box,  a little  packet  of  gunpowder,  and  a 
purse,  containing  only  a halfpenny  and  some  string.  Here  is 
all  the  baggage,  with  which,  after  the  execution  of  his  homicidal 
plan,  Louis  Rey  intended  to  take  refuge  in  a foreign  countr\'.* 
Beside  these  absurd  contradictions,  there  is  another  remarkable 
fact,  which  must  not  be  passed  over ; it  is  this : — the  pistol 
found  by  Rey  is  of  antique  form,  and  the  original  owner  of  it 
has  been  found.  He  is  a curiosity-merchant  at  Lyons ; and, 
though  he  cannot  affirm  that  Peytel  was  the  person  who  bought 
this  pistol  of  him,  he  perfectly  recognizes  Peytel  as  having  been 
a frequent  customer  at  his  shop  ! 

“No,  we  may  fearlessly  affirm  that  Louis  Rey  was  not 
guilty  of  the  crime  which  Peytel  lays  to  his  charge.  If,  to 
those  who  knew  him,  his  mild  and  open  disposition,  his  military 
career,  modest  and  without  a stain,  the  touching  regrets  of 
his  employers,  are  sufficient  proofs  of  his  innocence,  — the  calm 
and  candid  observer,  who  considers  how  the  crime  was  con- 
ceived, was  executed,  and  what  consequences  would  have  re- 
sulted from  it,  w'ill  likewise  acquit  him,  and  free  him  of  the 
odious  imputation  which  Peytel  endeavors  to  cast  upon  his 
memory. 

“But  justice  has  removed  the  veil,  w’ith  which  an  impious 
liand  endeavored  to  cover  itself.  Already,  on  the  night  of  the 
1st  of  November,  suspicion  was  awakened  by  the  extraordinary 
agitation  of  Peytel ; by  those  excessive  attentions  towards  his 
wdfe,  which  came  so  late  ; by  that  excessive  and  noisy  grief, 
and  by  those  calculated  bursts  of  sorrow,  which  are  such  as 
Nature  does  not  exhibit.  The  criminal,  whom  the  public  con- 
science had  fixed  upon  ; the  man  whose  frightful  combinations 
have  been  laid  bare,  and  whose  falsehoods,  step  by  step,  have 
been  exposed,  during  the  proceedings  previous  to  the  trial ; the 
murderer,  at  whose  hands  a heart-stricken  family,  and  society 
at  large,  demands  an  account  of  the  blood  of  a wife  ; — that 
murderer  is  Peytel.” 

* This  sentence  is  taken  from  another  part  of  the  “ Acte  d’accusation.” 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEL. 


233 


When,  my  dear  Briefless,  you  are  a judge. (as  I make  no 
doubt  you  will  be,  when  3 0U  have  left  olf  the  club  all  night, 
cigar-smoking  of  mornings,  and  reading  novels  in  bed),  will 
3'ou  ever  And  it  in  3'our  heart  to  order  a fellow-sinner’s  head  off 
upon  such  evidence  as  this?  Because  a romantic  Substitut  du 
Procureur  de  Roi  chooses  to  compose  and  recite  a little  drama, 
and  draw  tears  from  juries,  let  us  hope  that  severe  Rhadaman-  ^ 
thine  judges  are  not  to  be  melted  b}’  such  truinpeiy.  One 
wants  but  the  description  of  the  characters  to  render  the  piece 
complete,  as  thus  : — ■ 

Personages.  Costumes, 

r Habillement  complet  de 

Sebastien  Peytel Meurtrier i notaire  pertide  : figure  pale, 

(,barbe  noire,  cheveux  noirs. 

{Soldat  retire,  1)on,  'i 

brave,  franc,  jovial  aim-  I Costume  ordinaire ; il 
ant  le  vin,  les  femmes,  la  ^porte  sur  ses  epaules  une 
gaiete,  ses  maitres  sur-  | couverture  de  cheval. 
tout ; vrai  Frangais,  entin  J 

Wolf Lieutenant  de  gendarmerie. 

Felicit^;  d’ Alcazar...  Femme  et  victime  de  Peytel. 

Medecins,  Villageois,  Filles  d’Auberge,  Gai'9ons  d’Ecurie,  &c.  &c. 

La  scene  se  j)asse  sur  le  pout  d’Andert,  entre  Macon  et  Belley.  II  est  mimait 
La  })luie  tombe:  les  tonnerres  grondent.  Le  del  est  convert  de  nuages,  et 
sillonne  d’^clairs. 

All  these  personages  are  brought  into  pla}^  in  the  Procu- 
reur’s  drama ; the  villagers  come  in  with  their  chorus  ; the  old 
lieutenant  of  gendarmes  with  his  suspicions  ; Rey’s  frankness 
and  ga^'ety,  the  romantic  circumstances  of  his  birth,  his  gal- 
lantiA'  and  fldelitj’,  are  all  introduced,  in  order  to  form  a con- 
trast with  Peytel,  and  to  call  down  the  jury’s  indignation  against 
the  latter.  But  are  these  proofs?  or  au3’thing  like  proofs? 
And  the  suspicions,  that  are  to  serve  instead  of  proofs,  what 
are  the^^? 

“ My  servant,  Louis  Rey,  was  veiy  sombre  and  reserved,” 
isavs  Peytel;  “he  refused  to  call  me  in  the  morning,  to  cany 
my  mone\’-chest  to  my  room,  to  cover  the  open  car  when  it 
rained.”  The  Prosecutor  disproves  this  bv  stating  that  Rey 
talked  with  the  inn  maids  and  servants,  asked  if  his  master  was 
up,  and  stood  in  the  inn-3’ard,  grooming  the  horses,  vvith  his 
master  by  his  side,  neither  speaking  to  the  other.  Might  he 
not  have  talked  to  the  maids,  and  3'et  been  sombre  when  speak- 
ing to  his  master?  Might  he  not  have  neglected  to  call  his 
master,  and  yet  have  asked  whether  he  was  awake  ? Might  he 
not  have  said  that  the  inn-gates  were  safe,  out  of  hearing  of 
the  ostler  witness  ? Mr.  Substitute’s  answers  to  Pe3ders  state' 


234 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


ments  are  no  answer  at  all.  Every  word  Peytel  said  might  be 
true,  and  yet  Louis  Rey  might  not  have  committed  the  murder ; 
or  every  word  might  have  been  false,  and  yet  Louis  Rej^  might 
have  committed  the  murder. 

“Then,”  says  Mr.  Substitute,  “how  many  obstacles  are 
there  to  the  commission  of  the  crime?  And  these  are  — 

“1.  Rey  provided  himself  with  one  holster  pistol,  to  kill  two 
people,  knowing  well  that  one  of  them  had  alwa3’s  a brace  of 
pistols  about  him. 

“2.  He  does  not  think  of  firing  until  his  master’s  eyes  are 
open  : fires  at  six  paces,  not  caring  at  whom  he  fires,  and  then 
runs  awa}’. 

“3.  He  could  not  have  intended  to  kill  his  master,  because 
he  had  no  passport  in  his  pocket,  and  no  clothes  ; and  because 
he  must  have  been  detained  at  the  frontier  until  morning;  and 
because  ho  would  have  had  to  drive  two  carriages,  in  order 
to  avoid  suspicion. 

“4.  And,  a most  singular  circumstance,  the  very  pistol 
which  was  found  bj'  his  side  had  been  bought  at  the  shop  of  a 
man  at  L}’ons,  who  perfectly  recognized  Peytel  as  one  of  his 
customers,  though  he  could  not  saj'  he  had  sold  that  particular 
weapon  to  Peytel.” 

Does  it  follow,  from  this,  that  Louis  Re}'  is  not  the  mur- 
derer, much  more,  that  Peytel  is?  Look  at  argument  No.  1. 
Rey  had  no  need  to  kill  two  people  : he  wanted  the  money,  and 
not  the  blood.  Suppose  he  had  killed  Peytel,  would  he  not 
have  mastered  Madame  Peytel  easily?  — a weak  woman,  in  an 
excessively  delicate  situation,  incapable  of  much  energy,  at  the 
best  of  times. 

2.  “He  does  not  fire  till  he  knows  his  master’s  eyes  are 
open.”  Why,  on  a stormy  night,  does  a man  driving  a car- 
riage go  to  sleep?  Was  Rey  to  wait  until  his  master  snored? 
••He  fires  at  six  paces,  not  caring  whom  he  hits;”  — and 
jinight  not  this  happen  too?  The  night  is  not  so  dark  but  that 
he  can  see  his  master,  in  his  usual  place,  driving.  He  fires  and 
hits  — whom?  Madame  Peytel,  who  had  left  her  place,  and 
was  wrapped  up  with  Peytel  in  his  cloak.  She  screams  out, 
“ Husband,  take  your  pistols.”  Rey  knows  that  his  master 
has  a brace,  thinks  that  he  has  hit  the  wrong  person,  and,  as 
I^eytel  fires  on  him,  runs  away.  Peytel  follows,  hammer  in 
hand  ; as  he  comes  up  with  the  fugitive,  he  deals  him  a blow 
on  the  back  of  the  head,  and  Rey  falls  — his  face  to  the  ground. 
Is  there  anything  unnatural  in  this  story?  — anything  so  mon 
strously  unnatural,  that  is,  that  it  might  not  be  true  ? 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEL. 


235 


3.  These  objections  are  absurd.  WI13'  need  a man  have 
change  of  linen  ? If  he  had  taken  none  for  the  journey,  why 
should  he  want  any  for  the  escape?  Why  need  he  drive  two 
carriages?  — He  might  have  driven  both  into  the  river,  and 
J\Irs.  Pcytel  in  one.  Why  is  he  to  go  to  the  donane,  and 
thrust  himself  into  the  very  jaws  of  danger?  Are  there  not 
a thousand  wa\'s  for  a man  to  pass  a frontiei’?  Do  Miiugglers, 
when  the}’  have  to  pass  from  one  country  to  another,  choose 
exactly  those  spots  where  a i)olice  is  placed? 

And,  linall}',  the  gunsmith  of  Lyons,  who  knows  Peytel 
quite  well,  cannot  say  that  he  sold  the  pistol  to  him  ; that  is, 
he  did  not  sell  the  pistol  to  him  ; for  you  have  only  one  man’s 
word,  in  this  case  (Peytel’s),  to  tlie  contraiT  ; and  the  testi- 
mony, as  far  as  it  goes,  is  in  his  favor.  I say,  my  hid,  and 
gentlemen  of  the  jury,  that  these  objections  of  1113'  learned 
friend,  who  is  engaged  for  the  Crown,  are  absurd,  frivolous, 
monstrous  ; that  to  suspect  away  the  life  of  a man  upon  such 
siqipositions  as  these,  is  wicked,  illegal,  and  inhuman  ; and, 
what  is  more,  that  Louis  Re}^  if  he  wanted  to  commit  the 
crime  — if  he  wanted  to  possess  himself  of  a large  sum  of 
money,  chose  the  best  time  and  spot  for  so  doing;  and,  no 
doubt,  would  have  succeeded,  if  Fate  had  not,  in  a wonderful 
manner,  caused  Madame  Peytel  to  tal'e  her  husband's  place^  and 
receive  the  ball  intended  for  him  in  her  own  head. 

But  whether  these  suspicions  are  absurd  or  not,  hit  or  miss, 
it  is  the  advocate’s  duty,  as  it  appears,  to  urge  them.  He 
wants  to  make  as  unfavorable  an  impression  as  possilde  with 
regard  to  Peytel’s  character ; he,  therefore,  must,  for  con- 
trast’s sake,  give  all  sorts  of  praise  to  his  victim,  and  awaken 
eveiT  S3mipathy  in  the  poor  fellow’s  favor.  Having  done  this, 
as  far  as  lies  in  his  power,  having  exaggerated  eveiy  circum- 
stance that  can  be  unfavorable  to  Peytel,  and  given  his  own 
tale  in  the  baldest  manner  possible  — having  declared  that 
Peytel  is  the  murderer  of  his  wife  and  servant,  the  Crown 
now  proceeds  to  back  this  assertion,  by  showing  what  inter- 
ested motives  he  had,  and  b}’  relating,  after  its  own  fashion, 
the  circumstances  of  his  marriage. 

They  ma}^  be  told  briefl}'  here.  Pe3Tel  was  of  a good  familjg 
of  Macon,  and  entitled,  at  his  mother’s  death,  to  a considerable 
propert3n  He  had  been  educated  as  a notary,  and  had  lately 
purchased  a business,  in  that  line,  in  Belle}^  for  which  he  had 
paid  a large  sum  of  mone)^  part  of  the  sum,  15,000  francs, 
for  which  he  had  given  bills,  was  still  due. 

Near  Belle}^  Peytel  first  met  Felicite  Alcazar,  who  was  re= 


236 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


siding  with  her  brother-in-law,  Monsieur  de  Montrichard  ; and. 
knowing  that  the  young  lady’s  fortune  was  considerable,  he 
made  an  offer  of  marriage  to  the  brother-in-law,  who  thought 
the  match  advantageous,  and  communicated  on  the  subject 
with  Felicite’s  mother,  Madame  Alcazar,  at  Paris.  After  a 
time  Peytel  went  to  Paris,  to  press  his  suit,  and  was  accepted. 
There  seems  to  have  been  no  affectation  of  love  on  his  side ; 
and  some  little  repugnance  on  the  part  of  the  lady,  who  yielded, 
however,  to  the  wishes  of  her  parents,  and  w'as  married.  The 
parties  began  to  quarrel  on  the  veiy  da}’  of  the  marriage,  and 
continued  their  disputes  almost  to  the  close  of  the  unhappy 
connection.  Felicite  was  half  blind,  passionate,  sarcastic, 
clumsy  in  her  person  and  manners,  and  ill  educated ; Peytel, 
a man  of  considerable  intellect  and  pretensions,  wdio  had  lived 
for  some  time  at  Paris,  where  he  had  mingled  with  good  literary 
society.  The  lady  was,  in  fact,  as  disagreeable  a person  as 
could  well  be,  and  the  evidence  describes  some  scenes  which 
took  place  between  her  and  her  husband,  showing  how  deeply 
she  must  have  mortified  and  enraged  him. 

A charge  very  clearly  made  out  against  Peytel,  is  that  of 
dishonesty  ; he  procured  from  the  notary  of  whom  he  bought 
his  place  an  acquittance  in  full,  whereas  there  were  15,000 
francs  owing,  as  we  have  seen.  He  also,  in  the  contract  61 
marriage,  which  was  to  have  resem))led,  in  all  respects,  that 
between  Monsieur  Broussais  and  another  Demoiselle  Alcazar, 
caused  an  alteration  to  be  made  in  his  favor,  which  gave  him 
command  over  his  wife’s  funded  property,  without  furnishing 
the  guarantees  by  which  the  other  son-in-law  was  bound. 
And,  almost  immediately  after  his  marriage,  Peytel  sold  out 
of  the  funds  a sum  of  50,000  francs,  that  belonged  to  his  wife, 
and  used  it  for  his  own  purposes. 

About  two  months  after  his  marriage,  Peytel  pressed  his  wife 
\o  wake  her  will.  He  had  made  his,  he  said,  leaving  eveiy- 
thing  to  her,  in  case  of  his  death  : after  some  parley,  the  poor 
thing  consented.*  This  is  a cruel  suspicion  against  him  ; and 

* “ Peytel,”  says  the  act  of  accusation,  “ did  not  fail  to  see  the  danger 
which  would  menace  him,  if  this  will  (wliich  had  escaped  the  magistrates 
in  their  search  of  Peytel’s  papers)  was  discovered.  He,  therefore,  in- 
structed liis  agent  to  take  possession  of  it,  which  he  did,  and  the  fact  was 
not  mentioned  for  several  months  afterwards.  Peytel  and  his  agent  were 
called  upon  to  explain  the  circumstance,  but  refused,  and  their  silence  for 
a long  time  interrupted  the  ‘instruction’”  (getting  up  of  the  evidence). 
“ All  that  could  be  obtained  from  them  was  an  avowal,  that  such  a will 
existed,  constituting  Peytel  liis  wife’s  sole  legatee  ; and  a promise,  on  their 
parts,  to  produce  it  before  the  court  gave  its  sentence.”  But  why  keep  the 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEi.. 


2'67 

Mr.  Substitute  has  no  need  to  enlarge  upon  it.  As  for  the 
previous  fact,  the  dishonest  statement  about  the  15,000  francs, 
tliere  is  nothing  murderous  in  that  --  nothing  which  a man  very 
eager  to  make  a good  marriage  might  not  do.  The  same  may 
be  said  of  the  suppression,  in  Peytel’s  marriage  contract,  of 
the  clause  to  be  found  in  Broussais’s,  placing  restrictions  upon 
the  use  of  the  wife’s  mone}'.  Mademoiselle  d’Alcazar’s  friends 
read  the  contract  before  they  signed  it,  and  might  have  refused 
it,  had  they  so  pleased. 

After  some  disputes,  which  took  place  between  Peytel  and 
his  wife  (there  were  continual  quarrels,  and  continual  letters 
passing  between  them  from  room  to  room),  the  latter  was  in- 
duced to  write  him  a cou[)le  of  exaggerated  letters,  swearing 
‘‘  by  the  ashes  of  her  father”  that  she  would  be  an  obedient 
wife  to  him,  and  entreating  him  to  counsel  and  direct  her. 
These  letters  were  seen  b}'  members  of  the  lady’s  family,  who, 
ill  the  quarrels  between  the  couple,  always  took  the  husband’s 
part.  The}^  were  found  in  Peytel’s  cabinet,  after  he  had  been 
arrested  for  the  murder,  and  after  he  had  had  full  access  to  all 
his  papers,  of  which  he  destroyed  or  left  as  many  as  he  pleased. 
The  accusation  makes  it  a matter  of  suspicion  against  Peytel, 
that  he  should  have  left  these  letters  of  his  wife’s  in  a conspicu- 
ous situation. 

“ All  these  circumstances,”  says  the  accusation,  “ throw  a 
frightful  ligiit  upon  Pe3'tel’s  plans.  The  letters  and  will  of 
Madame  Peytel  are  in  the  hands  of  her  husband.  Three  months 
pass  awav,  and  this  poor  woman  is  brought  to  her  home,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  with  two  balls  in  her  head,  stretched  at 
the  bottom  of  her  carriage,  b}'  the  side  of  a peasant.” 

What  other  than  Sebastian  Peytel  could  have  committed 
this  murder?  — whom  could  it  profit?  — who  but  himself  had 
an  odious  chain  to  break,  and  an  inheritance  to  receive?  Why 
speak  of  the  servant’s  projected  robbery?  The  pistols  found  b}' 
the  side  of  Louis’s  bod}',  the  balls  bought  by  him  at  Macon, ‘ 
and  those  discovered  at  Belley  among  his  effects,  were  only  the 
result  of  a perfidious  combination.  The  pistol,  indeed,  which 
was  found  on  the  hill  of  Darde,  on  the  night  of  the  1st  of 
November,  could  only  have  belonged  to  Peytel,  and  must  have 
been  thrown  by  him,  near  the  body  of  his  domestic,  with  the 

will  secret?  The  anxiety  about  it  was  surely  absurd  and  unnecessary: 
the  whole  of  Madame  Peytel’s  family  knew  that  such  a will  was  made. 
She  had  consulted  her  sister  concerning  it,  who  said  — “ If  there  is  no 
other  way  of  satisfying  him,  make  the  will ; ” and  the  mother,  when  she 
heard  of  it,  cried  out  — “ Does  he  intend  to  poison  her  ? ” 


238 


THE  PARTS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


paper  which  had  before  enveloped  it.  Who  had  seen  this  pistoT 
in  the  hands  of  Louis  ? Among  ail  the  gendarmes,  work-women, 
domestics,  employed  b}'  Peytel  and  his  brother-in-law,  is  there 
one  single  witness  who  had  seen  this  weapon  in  Louis’s  posses- 
sion? It  is  true  that  Madame  Pej’tel  did,  on  one  occasion, 
speak  to  M.  de  Montrichard  of  a pistol ; which  had  nothing  to 
do,  however,  with  that  found  near  Louis  Rey.” 

Is  this  justice,  or  good  reason?  Just  reverse  the  argument, 
and  apply  it  to  Rey.  “ Who  but  Rey  could  have  committed 
this  murder?  — who  but  Rey  had  a large  sum  of  mone^^  to  seize 
upon?  — a pistol  is  found  by  his  side,  balls  and  powder  in  his 
pocket,  other  balls  in  his  trunks  at  home.  The.  pistol  found 
near  his  body  could  not,  indeed,  have  belonged  to  Peytel : did 
aii}^  man 'ever  see  it  in  his  possession?  The  very  gunsmith  who 
sold  it,  and  who  knew  Peytel,  would  he  not  have  known  that  he 
had  sold  him  this  pistol?  At  his  own  house,  Pej'tel  has  a col- 
lection of  weapons  of  all  kinds  ; eA^eiybod}’  has  seen  them  — a 
man  who  makes  such  collections  is  anxious  to  displa}"  them. 
Did  any  one  ever  see  this  weapon?  — Not  one.  And  Madame 
Peytel  did,  in  her  lifetime,  remark  a pistol  in  the  valet’s  posses- 
sion. She  was  short-sighted,  and  could  not  particularize  what 
kind  of  pistol  it  was  ; but  she  spoke  of  it  to  her  husband  and 
her  brother-in-law.”  This  is  not  satisfactory,  if  }'ou  please  ; 
but,  at  least,  it  is  as  satisfactory  as  the  other  set  of  suppositions. 
It  is  the  very  chain  of  argument  which  would  have  been  brought 
against  Louis  Rey  by  this  veiy  same  compiler  of  the  act  of 
accusation,  had  Rey  survived,  instead  of  Peytel,  and  had  he, 
as  most  undoubtedly  would  have  been  the  case,  been  tried  for 
the  murder. 

This  argument  was  shortly  put  by  PejTel’s  counsel:  — “ ^ 
Peytel  fkeid  been  killed  by  Rey  in  the  struggle,  would  you  not  have 
found  Rey  guilty  of  the  murder  of  his  master  and  mistress  It  is 
such  a dreadful  dilemma,  that  I wonder  how  judges  and  law- 
yers could  have  dared  to  persecute  Peytel  in  the  manner  which 
they  did. 

After  the  act  of  accusation,  which  lays  down  all  the  suppo- 
sitions against  Pe3’tel  as  facts,  which  will  not  admit  the  truth 
of  one  of  the  prisoner’s  allegations  in  his  own  defence,  comes 
the  trial.  The  judge  is  quite  as  impartial  as  the  preparer  of 
the  indictment,  as  will  be  seen  by  the  following  specimens  of  his 
interrogatories  : — 

Judge.  “The  act  of  accusation  finds  in  3’our  statement 
contradictions,  improbabilities,  impossibilities.  Thus  your  do- 
mestic, who  had  determined  to  assassinate  }'OU,  in  order  to  rob 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEL. 


239 


you,  and  wlio  must  have  calculated  upon  the  consequence  of  a 
failure^  had  neither  passport  nor  moiie}'  upon  him.  This  is  very 
unlikely  ; because  he  could  not  have  gone  far  with  011I3'  a single 
halfpenny,  which  was  all  he  had.” 

Prisoner.  ‘^My  servant  was  known,  and  often  passed  the 
frontier  without  a pass[)ort.” 

Judge.  “ Your  domestic  had  to  assassinate  two  q)erso?is,  and 
had  no  weapon  but  a single  pistol.  lie  had  no  dagger  ; and  the 
only  thing  found  on  him  was  a knife.” 

Prisoner.  In  the  car  there  were  several  turner’s  imple- 
ments, whi(;h  he  might  have  used.” 

Judge.  “ But  he  had  not  those  arms  upon  him,  because  you 
pursued  him  immediately.  He  had,  according  to  you,  onl}"  this 
old  pistol.” 

Prisoner.  “ I have  nothing  to  sny.” 

Judge.  “ A"our  domestic,  instead  of  Hying  into  woods,  which 
skirt  the  road,  ran  straight  forward  on  the  road  itself:  this.^ 
again.,  is  very  unlikely.'’ 

Prisoner.  “This  is  a conjecture  I could  answer  by  another 
conjecture  ; I can  only  reason  on  the  facts.” 

Judge.  “ How  far  did  3’ou  pursue  him?  ” 

Prisoner.  “ I don’t  know  exact!}'.” 

Judge.  “ A"ou  said  ‘ two  hundred  paces.’  ” 

No  answer  from  the  prisoner. 

Judge.  “ A^our  domestic  was  young,  active,  robust,  and  tall. 
He  was  ahead  of  you.  A"ou  were  in  a carriage,  from  which  }'ou 
had  to  descend : }'OU  had  to  take  your  pistols  from  a cushion, 
and  then  your  hammer ; — how  are  we  to  believe  that  you  could 
have  caught  him,  if  he  ran?  It  is  impossible.” 

Prisoner.  “ I can’t  explain  it:  I think  that  had  some 
defect  in  one  leg.  I,  for  1113'  part,  run  tolerably  fast.” 

Judge.  “ At  what  distance  from  him  did  you  fire  3'our  first 
shot  ? ” 

Prisoner.  “ I can’t  tell.” 

Judge.  “ Perhaps  he  was  not  running  when  3'ou  fired,” 
Prisoner.  “ I saw  him  running.” 

Judge.  “ In  what  position  was  3'our  wife?  ” 

Prisoner.  “ She  was  leaning  on  my  left  arm,  and  the  man 
was  on  the  right  side  of  the  carriage.” 

Judge.  “ The  shot  must  have  been  fired  a bout  portant^  be= 
cause  it  burned  the  eyebrows  and  lashes  entirely.  The  assas- 
sin must  have  passed  his  pistol  across  3'our  breast.’' 

Prisoner.  “ The  shot  was  not  fired  so  close  ; I am  convinced 
of  it : professional  gentlemen  wall  prove  it.” 


240 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Judge.  “ That  is  what  you  pretend^  because  yon  understand 
perfectly  the  consequences  of  admitting  the  fact.  Yoir  wife  was 
hit  with  two  balls  — one  striking  downwards,  to  the  right,  b}" 
the  nose,  the  other  going  horizontal!}^  through  the  cheek,  to  the 
left.” 

Prisoner.  ‘‘  The  contraiy  will  be  shown  by  the  witnesses 
called  for  the  purpose.” 

Judge.  It  is  a very  unlucky  combination  for  you  tliat  these 
balls,  which  went,  you  say,  from  the  same  pistol,  should  have 
taken  two  dilferent  directions.” 

Prisoner.  “ I can’t  dispute  about  the  various  combinations 
of  fire-arms  — professional  persons  will  be  heard.” 

Judge.  “ According  to  3’our  statement,  your  wife  said  to 
you,  ‘ My  poor  husband,  take  3’our  pistols.’” 

Prisoner.  She  did.” 

Judge.  “ In  a manner  quite  distinct.” 

Prisoner.  “Yes.” 

Judge.  “ So  distinct  that  you  did  not  fancy  she  was  hit?” 
Prisoner.  “ Yes  ; that  is  the  fact.” 

Judge.  Here.,  again.,  is  an  impossibility;  and  nothing  is 
more  precise  than  the  declaration  of  the  medical  men.  They 
aflfirm  that  your  wife  could  not  have  spoken  — their  report  is 
unanimous.” 

Prisoner.  “ I can  onl}'  oppose  to  it  quite  contrary  opinions 
from  professional  men,  also : you  must  hear  them.” 

Judge.  “ What  did  }’our  wife  do  next?” 


Judge.  “ You  den}"  the  statements  of  the  witnesses  (they 
related  to  Peytel’s  demeanor  and  behavior,  which  the  judge 
wishes  to  show  were  A"ery  unusual ; — and  what  if  they  were?) 
“ Here,  however,  are  some  mute  witnesses,  whose  testimony, 
you  will  not  perhaps  refuse.  Near  Louis  Key’s  body  was  found  a 

horse-cloth,  a pistol,  and  a whip Your  domestic  must 

nave  had  this  cloth  upon  him  when  he  went  to  assassinate  you  : 
it  was  wet  and  heavy.  An  assassin  disencumbers  himself 
of  anything  that  is  likely  to  impede  him,  especially  when  he  is 
going  to  struggle  with  a man  as  young  as  himself.” 

Prisoner.  “ My  servant  had,  I believe,  this  covering  on  his 
body  ; it  might  be  useful  to  him  to  keep  the  priming  of  his 
pistol  dry.” 

The  president  caused  the  cloth  to  be  opened,  and  showed 
that  there  was  no  hook,  or  tie,  by  which  it  could  be  held  to- 
gether ; and  that  Rey  must  have  held  it  with  one  hand,  and,  in 


THE  CASE  OF  FEYTEL.  241 

the  other,  his  whip,  and  the  [)istol  with  which  he  intended  to 
commit  tlie  crime  ; which  was  impossible. 

Prisoner,  ‘•‘’Tliese  are  onl)-  conjectures.” 

And  what  conjectures,  my  God  ! upon  which  to  take  awaj^ 
the  life  of  a man.  Jelfre^  s,  or  Fonqnier  Tinville,  could  scarce- 
1}'  have  dared  to  make  such.  Such  prejudice,  such  bitter  perse- 
cution, such  priming  of  the  jury,  such  monstrous  assumptions 
and  unreason  — fancy  them  connng  from  an  impartial  judge! 
The  man  is  worse  tlian  the  public  accuser. 

‘^Rey,”says  the  Judge,  could  not  have  committed  the 
murder,  because  he  had  no  nwneif  in  his  pockety  to  jiy^  in  case  of 
faihireP  And  what  is  the  [)recise  sum  that  his  lordship  thinks 
necessaiy  for  a gentleman  to  have,  bcTbre  he  makes  such  an 
attempt?  Are  the  men  who  murder  for  money,  nsuall}’  in  pos- 
session of  a cei'tain  independence  before  they  begin?  How 
much  money  was  Uey,  a servant,  who  loved  wine  and  women, 
had  been  stopi)ing  at  a score  of  inns  on  the  road,  and  had, 
probably,  an  annual  income  of  400  francs,  — how  much  money 
was  Rey  likely  to  have? 

“ Your  servant  had  to  assassinede  two  personsP  This  1 have 
mentioned  before.  Whv  had  he  to  assassinate  two  persons,* 
when  one  was  enough?  If  he  had  killed  Peytel,  could  he  not 
have  seized  and  gagged  his  wife  immediuteh' ? 

^^Your  domestic  ran  straight  forward^  instead  of ' taking  to  the 
woods ^ by  the  side  of  the  road:  this  is  very  unlikely P How  does 
his  worship  know?  Can  any  judge,  however  enlightened,  tell 
the  exact  road  that  a man  will  take,  who  has  just  missed  a coup 
of  murder,  and  is  pursued  by  a man  who  is  firing  pistols  at 
him?  And  has  a judge  a right  to  instruct  a jury  in  this  way, 
as  to  what  the}'  shall,  or  shall  not,  believe? 

“ You  have  to  run  after  an  active  man,  who  has  the  start  of 
you  : to  jump  out  of  a carriage  ; to  take  your  pistols  ; and  then,, 
your  hammer.  This  is  impossibleP  By  heavens  1 does  it  not 
make  a man’s  blood  boil,  to  read  such  blundering,  blood-seek- 
ing sophistry  ? This  man,  when  it  suits  him,  shows  that  Rey 
would  be  slow  in  his  motions  ; and  when  it  suits  him,  declares 
that  Rey  ought  to  be  quick  ; declares  ex  cathedra,,  what  pace 
Rey  should  go,  and  what  direction  he  should  take  ; shows,  in  a 
breath,  that  he  must  have  run  faster  tlian  Reytcl ; and  then, 
that  he  could  not  run  fast,  because  the  cloak  clogged  him ; set- 

* M.  Balsac’s  tlieory  of  the  case  is,  that  Eey  had  intrigued  with  Ma- 
dame Peytel  ; having  known  her  previous  to  lier  marriage,  wlien  she  was 
staying  in  the  house  of  her  brother-in-law,  Monsieur  de  Montrichard,  where 
Key  had  been  a servant. 


16 


242 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


ties  how  he  is  to  be  dressed  when  he  commits  a murder,  and 
what  mone}"  he  is  to  have  in  his  pocket ; gives  these  impossi- 
ble suppositions  to  the  juiy,  and  tells  them  that  the  previous 
statements  are  impossible  ; and,  finally,  informs  them  of  the 
precise  manner  in  which  Rey  must  have  stood  liolding  his 
horse-cloth  in  one  hand,  his  whip  and  pistol  in  the  other,  when 
he  made  the  supposed  attempt  at  murder.  Now,  what  is  the 
size  of  a horse-cloth  ? Is  it  as  big  as  a pocket-handkerchief? 
Is  tlicfre  no  possibilit}’  that  it  might  hang  over  one  shoulder ; 
that  the  whip  should  be  held  under  that  very  arm?  Did  3’ou 
never  see  a carter  so  cany  it,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  all  the 
while?  Is  it  monstrous,  abhorrent  to  nature,  that  a man  should 
fire  a pistol  from  under  a cloak  on  a rainy  day?  — that  he 
should,  after  firing  the  shot,  be  frightened,  and  run ; run 
straight  before  him,  with  the  cloak  on  his  shoulders,  and  the 
weapon  in  his  hand?  Peytel’s  story  is  possible,  and  veiy  pos- 
sible ; it  is  almost  probable.  Allow  that  Re}'  had  the  cloth 
on,  and  3’ou  allow  that  he  must  have  been  clogged  in  his  mo- 
tions ; that  Peytcl  may  have  come  up  with  him  — felled  him 
with  a blow  of  the  hammer ; the  doctors  say  that  he  would 
have  so  fallen  bv  one  blow  — he  would  have  fallen  on  his  face, 
as  he  was  found  : the  paper  might  have  been  thrust  into  his 
breast,  and  tumbled  out  as  he  fell.  Circumstances  far  more 
impossible  have  occurred  ere  this  ; and  men  have  been  hanged 
for  them,  who  were  as  innocent  of  the  crime  laid  to  their 
charge  as  the  judge  on  the  bench,  who  convicted  them. 

In  like  manner,  Pe}'tel  ma}'  not  have  committed  the  ci’ime 
charged  to  him  ; and  Mr.  Judge,  with  his  arguments  as  to 
possibilities  and  impossibilities, — Mr.  Public  Prosecutor,  with 
his  romantic  narrative  and  infiammatoiy  harangues  to  the  jury, 
— may  have  used  all  these  powers  to  bring  to  death  an  innocent 
man.  P"rom  the  animus  with  which  the  case  had  been  conducted 
from  beginning  to  end,  it  was  easy  to  see  the  result.  Here  it  is, 
in  the  words  of  the  provincial  paper  : — 

Bourg,  28  October,  1839. 

“ The  condemned  Peytel  has  just  undergone  his  punishment^ 
which  took  jfiace  four  days  before  the  anniversary  of  his  crime. 
The  terrible  drama  of  the  bridge  of  Andert,  which  cost  the  life 
of  two  persoiis,  has  just  terminated  on  the  scaffold.  Mid-day 
had  just  sounded  on  the  clock  of  the  Palais  : the  same  clock 
tolled  midnight  w'hen,  on  the  30th  of  August,  his  sentence  was 
pronounced. 

“ Since  the  rejection  of  his  appeal  in  Cassation,  on  which 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEL. 


243 


his  principal  hopes  were  founded,  Peytel  spoke  little  of  his 
petition  to  the  King.  The  notion  of  transportation  was  that 
which  he  seemed  to  cherish  most.  However,  he  made  several 
inquiries  from  the  gaoler  of  the  [)i-isou,  when  he  saw  him  at 
meal-time,  with  regard  to  the  place  ol‘  execution,  the  usual  hour, 
and  other  details  on  the  subject.  From  that  period,  the  words 
^ Champ  de  Foire'  (the  fair-lield,  whei’e  the  execution  was  to  be 
held),  were  frequenUy  used  by  him  in  conversation. 

“Yesterday,  the  idea  that  the  time  had  ai-rived  seemed  to 
be  more  strong!}"  than  ever  inq)ressed  upon  him  ; especially 
after  the  departure  of  the  cure,  who  latterl}’  has  been  with  him 
every  day.  The  documents,  connected  with  the  trial  had  ar- 
rived in  the  morning,  lie  was  ignorant  of  this  circumstance, 
but  sought  to  discover  from  his  guardians  what  they  tried  to 
hide  from  him  ; and  to  lind  out  whether  his  petition  was  rejected, 
and  when  he  was  to  die. 

“ Yesterday,  also,  he  had  written  to  demand  the  presence 
of  his  counsel,  M.  Margerand,  in  order  that  he  might  have  some 

conversation  with  him,  and  regulate  his  affairs,  before  he ; 

he  did  not  write  down  the  word,  but  left  in  its  i)lace  a few 
points  of  the  pen. 

“In  the  evening,  whilst  he  was  at  supper,  he  begged  ear- 
nestly to  be  allowed  a little  wax-candle,  to  finish  what  he  was 
writing:  otherwise,  he  said.  Time  might  fail.  This  was  a new, 
indirect  manner  of  repeating  his  ordinary  question.  As  light, 
u[)  to  that  evening,  had  been  refused  him,  it  was  thought  best 
to  deny  him  in  this,  as  in  former  instances  ; otherwise  his  sus- 
picions might  have  been  confirmed.  The  keeper  refused  his 
demand. 

“ This  morning,  Monday,  at  nine  o’clock,  the  Greffier  of  the 
Assize  Court,  in  fulfilment  of  the  painful  duty  which  the  law 
imposes  upon  him,  came  to  the  prison,  in  company  with  the 
cure  of  Bourg,  and  announced  to  the  convict  that  his  petition 
was  rejected,  and  that  he  had  onl}-  three  hours  to  live.  He 
received  this  fatal  news  with  a great  deal  of  calmness,  and 
showed  himself  to  be  no  more  affected  than  he  had  been  on  the 
trial.  ‘ I am  read}" ; but  I wish  they  had  given  me  four-and- 
twenty  hours’  notice,’  — were  all  the  words  he  used. 

“ The  Greffier  now  retired,  leaving  Peytel  alone  with  the 
cure,  who  did  not  thenceforth  quit  him.  Peytel  breakfasted 
at  ten  o’clock. 

“ At  eleven,  a piquet  of  mounted  gendarmerie  and  infantry 
took  their  station  upon  the  place  before  the  prison,  where  a 
great  <3oncoLirs(i  of  people  had  already  assembled.  An  open 


244 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


car  was  at  the  door.  Before  he  went  out  PejTel  asked  the 
gaoler  for  a looking-glass  ; and  having  examined  his  face  for  a 
moment,  said,  ‘ At  least,  the  inliabitants  of  Boiirg  will  see  that 
I have  not  grown  thin.’ 

“As  twelve  o’clock  sounded,  the  prison  gates  opened,  an 
aide  appeared,  followed  hy  Pe3del,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the 
cure.  Pe^Tel’s  face  was  pale,  he  had  a long  black  l^eard,  a blue 
cap  on  his  head,  and  his  great-coat  flung  over  his  shoulders, 
and  buttoned  at  the  neck. 

“ He  looked  about  at  the  place  and  the  crowd  ; he  asked  if 
the  carriage  would  go  at  a trot ; and*  on  being  told  that  that 
would  be  difficult,  he  said  he  would  prefer  walking,  and  asked 
what  the  road  was.  He  immediatel}’  set  out,  walking  at  a firm 
and  rapid  pace.  He  was  not  bound  at  all. 

“An  immense  crowd  of  people  encumbered  the  two  streets 
through  which  he  had  to  pass  to  the  place  of  execution.  He 
cast  his  e\’es  alternately  upon  them  and  upon  the  guillotine, 
which  was  before  him. 

“ Arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  Peytel  embraced  the 
cure,  and  bade  him  adieu.  He  then  embraced  him  again ; 
perhaps,  for  his  mother  and  sister.  He  then  mounted  the  steps 
rapidl}’,  and  gave  himself  into  the  hands  of  the  executioner, 
who  removed  his  coat  and  cap.  He  asked  how  he  was  to  place 
himself,  and  on  a sign  being  made,  he  flung  himself  briskl}’  on 
the  plank,  and  stretched  his  neck.  In  another  moment  he  was 
no  more. 

“ The  crowd,  which  had  been  quite  silent,  retired,  profoundly 
moved  b}’  the  sight  it  had  witnessed.  As  at  all  executions, 
there  was  a veiy  great  number  of  women  present. 

“ Under  the  scaffold  there  had  been,  ever  since  the  morning, 
a coffin.  The  family  had  asked  for  his  remains,  and  had  them 
immediately  buried,  privately  : and  thus  the  unfortunate  man’s 
head  escaped  tlie  modellers  in  wax,  several  of  whom  had  arrived 
to  take  an  im[)ression  of  it.” 

Down  goes  the  axe  ; the  poor  wretch’s  head  rolls  gasping 
into  tlie  basket ; the  spectators  go  home,  pondering ; and  Mr. 
Executioner  and  his  aides  have,  in  half  an  hour,  removed  all 
traces  of  the  august  sacrifice,  and  of  the  altar  on  which  it  had 
been  performed.  Sa3%‘  Mr.  Briefless,  do  3011  think  that  aiy^ 
single  person,  meditating  murder,  would  be  deterred  there- 
from bv  beholding  this  — nay,  a thousand  more  executions? 
It  is  not  for  moral  im[)rovement,  as  I take  it,  nor  for  oppor- 
tuuitv  to  make  ap[)ropriate  remarks  upon  the  punishment  of 
crime,  that  people  make  a holiday  of  a killing-da3',  and  leave 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEL. 


245 


their  homes  and  occupations,  to  flock  and  witness  the  cutting 
off*  of  a head.  Do  we  crowd  to  see  Mr.  Macread}'  in  the  new 
tragedy,  or  Mademoiselle  Ellssler  in  her  last  new  ballet  and 
flesh-colored  stockinnet  pantaloons,  out  of  a pure  love  of 
abstract  poetry  and  beaut\’ ; or  from  a strong  notion  that  we 
shall  be  excited,  in  different  ways,  by  the  actor  and  the  dancer? 
And  so,  as  we  go  to  have  a meal  of  fictitious  terror  at  tlie  tragedy, 
of  something  more  questionable  in  the  l)allet,  we  go  for  a glut 
of  blood  to  the  execution.  The  lust  is  in  every  man’s  nature, 
more  or  less.  Did  you  ever  witness  a wrestling  or  boxing 
match?  The  first  clatter  of  the  kick  on  the  shins,  or  the  first 
drawing  of  blood,  makes  the  stranger  shudder  a little  ; but  soon 
the  blood  is  his  chief  enjoyment,  and  he  thirsts  for  it  with  a 
fierce  delight.  It  is  a fine  grim  pleasure  that  we  have  in  seeing 
a man  killed  ; and  I make  no  doubt  that  the  organs  of  destruc- 
tiveness must  begin  to  throb  and  swell  as  we  witness  the  de- 
lightful savage  spectacle. 

Three  or  four  years  back,  when  Fieschi  and  Lacenaire  were 
executed,  I made  attempts  to  sec  the  execution  of  both ; but 
was  disappointed  in  both  cases.  In  the  first  instance,  the  day 
for  Fieschi’s  death  was,  purposely,  kept  secret;  and  he  was,  if 
I remember  rightly,  executed  at  some  remote  quarter  of  the 
town.  But  it  would  have  done  a philanthropist  good,  to 
witness  the  scene  whioh  we  saw  on  the  morning  when  his 
execution  did  not  take  place. 

It  was  carnival  time,  and  the  rumor  had  prett}’  generally 
been  carried  abroad  that  he  was  to  die  on  that  morning.  A 
friend,  who  accompanied  me,  came  man}'  miles,  through  the 
mud  and  dark,  in  order  to  be  in  at  the  death.  We  set  out 
before  light,  floundering  through  the  muddy  Champs  Elysees  ; 
where,  besides,  were  man}'  other  persons  floundering,  and  all 
bent  upon  the  same  errand.  We  passed  by  the  Concert  of 
Musard,  then  held  in  the  Rue  St.  Plonore  ; and  round  this,  in 
the  wet,  a number  of  coaches  were  collected.  The  ball  was 
just  up,  and  a crowd  of  people  in  hideous  masquerade,  drunk, 
tired,  dirty,  dressed  in  horrible  old  frippery,  and  daubed  with 
filthy  rouge,  were  trooping  out  of  the  place  : tipsy  w'omen  and 
men,  shrieking,  jabbering,  gesticulating,  as  French  will  do; 
parties  swaggering,  staggering  forwards,  arm  in  arm,  reeling 
to  and  fro  across  the  street,  and  yelling  songs  in  chorus  : hun- 
dreds of  these  were  bound  for  the  show,  and  we  thought  our- 
selves lucky  in  finding  a vehicle  to  the  execution  place,  at  the 
Barriere  d’Enfer.  As  we  crossed  the  river  and  entered  the 
Enfer  Street,  crowds  of  students,  black  workmen,  and  more 


246 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


drunken  devils  from  more  carnival  balls,  were  filling  it ; and  on 
the  grand  place  there  were  thousands  of  these  assembled,  look- 
ing out  for  Fiesohi  and  his  cortege.  We  waited  and  waited; 
but  alas ! no  fun  for  us  that  morning : no  throat- cutting ; no 
august  spectacle  of  satisfied  justice  ; and  the  eager  spectators 
were  obliged  to  return,  disappointed  of  their  expected  breakfast 
of  blood.  It  would  have  been  a fine  scene,  that  execution, 
coulddt  but  have  taken  place  in  the  midst  of  the  mad  mounte- 
banks and  tips}'  strumpets  who  had  flocked  so  far  to  witness  it, 
wishing  to  wind  up  the  delights  of  their  carnival  by  a bonne-- 
bouche  of  a murder. 

The  other  attempt  was  equall}'  unfortunate.  We  arrived  too 
late  on  the  ground  to  be  present  at  the  execution  of  Lacenaire 
and  his  co-mate  in  murder,  Avril.  But  as  we  came  to  the 
ground  (a  gloomy  round  space,  within  the  barrier  — three 
roads  lead  to  it;  and,  outside,  }^ou  see  the  wine-shops  and 
restaurateurs’  of  the  barrier  looking  ga}^  and  inAuting,)  — as  we 
came  to  the  ground,  we  only  found,  in  the  midst  of  it,  a little 
pool  of  ice,  just  partially  tinged  with  red.  Two  or  three  idle 
street-bo}'S  were  dancing  and  stamping  about  this  pool ; and 
when  I asked  one  of  them  whether  the  execution  had  taken 
place,  he  began  dancing  more  madly  than  ever,  and  shrieked 
out  with  a loud  fantastical,  theatrical  A'oice,  “Yenez  tons 
Messieurs  et  Dames,  voyez  ici  le  sang  du  monstre  Lacenaire, 
ct  de  son  compagnon  le  traitre  Avril,”  or  words  to  that  effect ; 
and  straightway  all  the  other  gamins  screamed  out  the  words  in 
chorus,  and  took  hands  and  danced  round  the  little  puddle. 

O august  Justice,  3’our  meal  was  followed  by  a prett}'  appro- 
priate grace  ! Was  any  man,  who  saw  the  show,  deterred,  or 
frightened,  or  moralized  in  any  wa}'?  He  had  gratified  his 
appetite  for  blood,  and  this  was  all.  There  is  something 
singularly  pleasing,  both  in  the  amusement  of  execution-seeing, 
and  in  the  results.  You  are  not  only  delightful!}"  excited  at 
the  time,  but  most  pleasingly  relaxed  afterwards ; the  mind, 
which  has  been  wound  up  painfully  until  now,  becomes  quite 
complacent  and  easy.  There  is  something  agreeable  in  the 
misfortunes  of  others,  as  the  philosopher  has  told  us.  Remark 
what  a good  breakfast  you  eat  after  an  execution  ; how  pleasant 
it  is  to  cut  jokes  after  it,  and  upon  it.  This  merry,  pleasant 
mood  is  brought  on  by  the  blood  tonic. 

But,  for  God’s  sake,  if  we  are  to  enjoy  this,  let  us  do  so  in 
moderation  ; and  let  us,  at  least,  be  sure  of  a man’s  guilt  before 
we  murder  him.  To  kill  him,  even  with  the  full  assurance  that 
he  is  guilty  is  hazardous  enough.  Who  gave  you  the  right  to 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEL. 


247 


do  so?  — 3’on,  who  ciy  out  against  suicides,  as  impious  and 
contrary  to  Christian  law?  What  use  is  there  in  killing  him? 
You  deter  no  one  else  from  committing  the  crime  by  so  doing: 
you  give  us,  to  be  sure,  half  an  hour’s  pleasant  entertainment; 
but  it  is  a great  (jiiestion  whether  we  derive  much  moral  profit 
from  the  sight.  If  you  want  to  keep  a murderer  from  farther 
inroads  upon  society,  are  there  not  plenty  of  hulks  and  prisons, 
God  wot ; treadmills,  galle3  S,  and  houses  of  correetion?  Above 
all,  as  in  the  case  of  Sebastian  Peytel  and  liis  family,  there  have 
been  two  deaths  alread}' ; was  a third  death  absolutely  necessary  ? 
and,  taking  tlie  fallibility  of  judges  and  lawyers  into  his  heart, 
and  remembei’ing  the  thousand  instances  of  unmerited  punish- 
ment that  have  been  sutfered,  upon  similiar  and  stronger  evidence 
lie  fore,  can  any  man  declare,  positiv'eh'  and  upon  his  oath,  that 
Peytel  was  guilty,  and  that  this  was  not  the  third  murder  in  the 


FOUR  IMITATIONS  OF  BERANGER, 


LE  ROI  D’YVETOT. 

Il  etait  un  roi  d’Yvetot, 

Peu  connu  dans  I’histoire  ; 

Se  levant  tard,  se  couchant  tot, 

Dormant  fort  bien  sans  gloire, 

Et  coiironne  par  Jeanne  ton 
D ’un  simple  bonnet  de  coton, 

Dit-on. 

Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah! 

Quel  bon  petit  roi  c’etait  la ! 

La,  la. 

II  fesait  ses  quatre  repas 
Dans  son  palais  de  chaume, 

Et  sur  un  ane,  pas  a pas, 

Parcourait  son  royaume. 

Joyeux,  simple  et  croyant  le  bien, 

Pour  toute  garde  il  n’avait  rien 
Qu’un  chien. 

Oh  ! oh  ! oh  ! oh  ! ah  ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c. 
La,  la. 

Il  n’avait  de  goht  onereux 
Qu’une  soif  un  peu  vive  ; 

Mais,  en  rendant  son  peuple  heureux, 

Il  faux  bien  qu’un  roi  vive. 

Lui-meme  a table,  et  sans  suppot, 

Sur  chaque  miiid  levait  un  pot 
D’impbt. 

Oh ! oh  ! oh  ! oh  ! ah  ! ah  ! ah ! ah  ! &c. 
La,  la. 


FOUR  LM1TAT10N8  OF  BEKAJNGEK. 


249 


Aux  filles  cle  bonnes  inaisons 
Comme  il  avait  sii  plaire, 

Ses  sujets  avaient  cent  raisons 
De  le  nommer  leur  pere  : 

D’ailleurs  il  ne  levait  de  ban 
Que  pour  tirer  quatre  fois  Fan 
All  blanc. 

Oh  ! oh  ! oh  ! oh  ! ah  ! ah  ! ah  ! ah ! &c. 
La,  la, 

Il  n’agrandit  point  ses  etats, 

Fut  un  voisin  commode, 

Et,  modele  des  potentats, 

Prit  le  plaisir  pour  code. 

Ce  n’est  que  lorsqu’il  expira, 

Que  le  peuple  qui  I’enterra 
Pleura. 

Oh  ! oh  ! oh  ! oh  ! ah  ! ah  ! ah  ! ah ! &0. 
La,  la. 

On  conserve  encor  le  portrait 
De  ce  digue  et  bon  prince ; 

C’est  Fenseigne  d’un  cabaret 
Fameux  dans  la  province. 

~ Les  jours  de  fete,  bien  souvent, 

La  foule  s’ecrie  en  buvant 
Devant ; 

Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah! 

Quel  bon  petit  roi  c’etait  la ! 

La,  la. 


THE  KINO  OF  YYETOT. 

There  was  a king  of  Yvetot, 

Of  whom  renown  hath  little  said, 

Who  let  all  thoughts  of  glory  go. 

And  dawdled  half  his  days  a-bed  ; 

And  every  night,  as  night  came  round. 
By  Jenii}',  with  a nightcap  crowned. 
Slept  very  sound  : 

Sing,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! and  he,  he,  lies 
That’s  the  kind  of  king  for  me. 


250 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


And  every  day  it  came  to  pass, 

That  four  lusty  meals  made  he  ; 

And,  step  step,  upon  an  ass. 

Rode  abroad,  his  realms  to  see ; 

And  wherever  he  did  stir. 

What  think  3^011  was  his  escort,  sir? 

Why,  an  old  cur. 

Sing,  ho,  ho,  ho!  &c. 

If  e’er  he  went  into  excess, 

’Twas  from  a somewhat  livel}^  thirst ; 

But  he  who  would  his  subjects  bless. 

Odd’s  fish  I — must  wet  his  whistle  first; 
And  so  from  every  cask  the}^  got. 

Our  king  did  to  himself  allot. 

At  least  a pot, 

Sing,  ho,  ho ! &c. 

To  all  the  ladies  of  the  land, 

A courteous  king,  and  kind,  was  he ; 

The  reason  wh^"  j^ou’ll  understand, 

The}^  named  him  Pater  Patriae. 

Each  year  he  called  his  fighting  men. 

And  marched  a league  from  home,  and  then 
Marched  back  again. 

Sing,  ho,  ho  1 &c. 

Neither  b}^  force  nor  false  pretence. 

He  sought  to  make  his  kingdom  great. 
And  made  (O  princes,  learn  from  hence)  — 
“ Live  and  let  live,”  his  rule  of  state. 
Twas  onl}^  when  he  came  to  die. 

That  his  people  who  stood  by. 

Were  known  to  cry. 

Sing,  ho,  ho ! &c. 

Tlie  portrait  of  this  best  of  kings 
Is  extant  still,  upon  a sign 
That  on  a village  tavern  swings. 

Famed  in  the  countiy  for  good  wine. 

The  people,  in  their  Sunday  trim. 

Filling  their  glasses  to  the  brim. 

Look  up  to  him. 

Singing,  ha,  ha,  ha  1 and  he,  he  he  ! 

That’s  the  sort  of  king  for  me. 


FOUR  IMITATIONS  OF  BFRANGER. 


251 


THE  KING  OF  BRENTFORD. 

ANOTHER  VERSION. 

There  was  a king  in  Brentford,  — of  whom  no  legends  tell, 
But  who,  without  his  gloiy,  — could  eat  and  sleep  right  well. 
His  Polly’s  cotton  nightcap,  — it  was  his  crown  of  state, 

Fie  slept  of  evenings  earl}’,  — and  rose  of  mornings  late. 


All  in  a fine  mud  palace,  — each  day  he  took  four  meals. 

And  for  a guard  of  honor,  — a dog  ran  at  his  heels. 

Sometimes,  to  view  his  kingdoms,  — rode  forth  this  monarch 
good, 

And  then  a prancing  jackass  — he  royally  bestrode. 


There  were  no  costly  habits  — with  which  this  king  was  curst. 
Except  (and  where’s  the  harm  on’t?)  — a somewhat  lively  thirst ; 
But  people  must  pay  taxes,  — and  kings  must  have  their  sport, 
So  out  of  every  gallon  — His  Grace  he  took  a quart. 


He  pleased  the  ladies  round  him,  — with  manners  soft  and 
bland  ; 

With  reason  good,  they  named  him,  — the  father  of  his  land. 
Each  year  his  mighty  armies  — marched  forth  in  gallant  show  ; 
Their  enemies  were  targets,  — their  bullets  they  were  tow. 

He  vexed  no  quiet  neighbor,  — no  useless  conquest  made. 

But  by  the  laws  of  pleasure,  — his  peaceful  realm  he  swayed. 
And  in  the  years  he  reigned,  — through  all  this  country  wide. 
There  was  no  cause  for  weeping,  — save  when  the  good  mau 
died. 


Tlie  faithful  men  of  Brentford, — do  still  their  king  deplore, 
His  portrait  yet  is  swinging,  — beside  an  ale-house  door. 
And  topers,  tender-hearted,  — regard  his  honest  phiz. 

And  envy  times  departed,  — that  knew  a reign  like  his. 


252 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


LE  GRENIER. 

Je  viens  revolr  I’asile  ou  ma  jeimesse 
De  la  misere  a subi  les  legons. 

J’avais  vingt  ans,  nne  folle  maitresse, 

De  francs  amis  et  I’amour  des  chansons 
Bravant  le  monde  et  les  sots  et  les  sages, 

Sans  avenir,  riche  de  mon  printemps, 

Leste  et  jo^^eux  je  montais  six  etages. 

Dans  un  grenier  qu’on  est  bien  a vingt  ana ! 

C’est  iin  grenier,  point  ne  veiix  qu’on  I’ignorc. 
La  fut  mon  lit,  *bien  chetif  et  bien  dur ; 

La  fut  ma  table  ; et  je  retrouve  encore 
Trois  pieds  d’lm  vers  charbonnes  sur  le  mur. 
Apparaissez,  plaisirs  de  mon  bel  age, 

Que  d’un  coup  d’aile  a fustiges  le  temps, 

Vingt  fois  pour  vous  j’ai  mis  ma  montre  en  gage, 
Dans  un  grenier  qu’on  est  bien  a vingt  ans ! 

Lisette  ici  doit  surtout  apparaitre, 

Vive,  jolie,  avec  un  frais  chapeau  ; 

Deja  sa  main  a I’etroite  fenetre 
Suspend  son  schal,  en  guise  de  ridean. 

Sa  robe  aussi  va  parer  m a couchette  ; 

Respecte,  Amour,  ses  plis  longs  et  flottans. 

J’ai  SLi  depuis  qui  payait  sa  toilette. 

Dans  un  grenier  qu’on  est  bien  a vingt  ans ! 

A table  iin  jour,  jour  de  grande  richesse, 

De  mes  amis  les  voix  brillaient  en  choeur, 

Quand  jusqu’ici  monte  un  cri  d’allegresse  : 

A Marengo  Bonaparte  est  vainqueur. 

Le  canon  gronde  ; un  autre  chant  commence  ; 
Nous  celebrons  taut  de  faits  eclatans. 

Les  rois  jamais  n’envahiront  la  France. 

Dans  un  grenier  qu’on  est  bien  a vingt  ans ! 


FOUR  IMITATIONS  OF  B^RANGER. 


Quittoiis  ce  toit  ou  ma  raison  s’enivre. 

Oh  ! qifils  sont  loin  ces  jours  si  regrettes  ! 
J’echangerais  ce  qn’il  me  reste  a vivre 
Contre  nn  des  mois  qu’ici  Dien  m’a  comptes, 
Pour  rever  gioire,  amour,  plaisir,  folie, 

Pour  depenser  sa  vie  en  pen  d’instans, 

D Tin  long  espoir  pour  la  voir  embellie, 

Dans  un  grenier  qu’on  est  bien  a vingt  an*  I 


THE  GARRET. 

With  pensive  e3^es  the  little  room  I view, 

Where,  in  m3’  youth,  I weathered  it  so  long; 
With  a wild  mistress,  a stanch  friend  or  two, 

And  a light  heart  still  breaking  into  song : 
Making  a mock  of  life,  and  all  its  cares, 

Rich  in  the  gloiy  of  my  rising  sun, 

Lightl3^  I vaulted  up  four  pair  of  stairs, 

In  the  brave  cla3’s  when  I was  twenty-one. 

Yes  ; ’tis  a garret  — let  him  know’t  who  will  — 
There  was  1113'  bed  — full  hard  it  was  and  small 
My  table  there  — and  I decipher  still 

Half  a lame  couplet  charcoaled  on  the  wall. 

Ye  jo3^s,  that  Time  hath  swept  with  him  away, 
Come  to  mine  C3’es,  3’e  dreams  of  love  and  fun ; 
For  you  I pawned  my  watch  how  man3’  a da3’, 

In  the  brave  da3^s  when  I was  twenty-one. 


And  see  my  little  Jessy,  first  of  all ; 

She  comes  with  pouting  lips  and  sparkling  eyes 
Behold,  how  roguishly  she  pins  her  shawl 
Across  the  narrow  casement,  curtain-wise  ; 

Now  1)3’  the  bed  her  petticoat  glides  down. 

And  when  did  woman  look  the  worse  in  none? 

I have  heard  since  who  jiaid  for  many  a gown. 

In  the  brave  days  when  I was  twenty-one. 


254 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


One  jolly  evening,  when  my  friends  and  I 

Made  happy  music  with  our  songs  and  cheers, 
A shout  of  triumph  mounted  up  thus  high, 

And  distant  cannon  opened  on  our  ears  : 

We  rise,  — we  join  in  the  triumphant  strain,  — - 
Napoleon  conquers  — Austerlitz  is  won  — 
Tyrants  shall  never  tread  us  down  again, 

In  the  brave  days  when  I was  twenty-one. 

Let  us  begone  — the  place  is  sad  and  strange  — 
How  far,  far  off,  these  happy  times  appear ; 

All  that  I have  to  live  I’d  gladly  change 

For  one  such  month  as  I have  wasted  here  — 
To  draw  long  dreams  of  beauty,  love,  and  power. 
From  founts  of  hope  that  never  will  outrun, 
And  drink  all  life’s  quintessence  in  an  hour, 

Give  me  the  days  when  I was  twenty-on^s  I 


ROGER-BONTEMPS. 

Aux  gens  atrabilaires 
Pour  exemple  donne, 

En  un  temps  de  miseres 
Roger-Bontemps  est  ne. 
Vivre  obscur  a sa  guise, 
Narguer  les  mecontens : 

Eh  gai ! c’est  la  devise 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Du  chapeau  de  son  pm’e 
Coiffe  dans  le  grands  jours, 
De  roses  ou  de  lierre 
Le  rajeunir  toujours  ; 

Mettre  un  manteau  de  bure, 
Vieil  ami  de  vingt  ans  ; 

Eh  gai ! c’est  la  parure 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 


FOUK  IMITATIONS  OF  BERANGER, 


255 


Posseder  dans  sa  hutte 
Une  table,  im  vieux  lit, 

Des  cartes,  ime  flute, 

Un  broc  que  Dieu  remplit; 
Un  portrait  de  maitresse, 

Un  coffre  et  rien  dedans  ; 

Eh  gai ! c’est  la  richesse 
Du  gros  Roger- Bontemps. 

Aux  enfans  de  la  viile 
Montrer  de  petits  jeux  ; 

Etre  fesseur  habile 
De  contes  graveleux ; 

Ne  parler  que  de  danse 
Et  d’almanachs  chantans* 

Eh  gai ! c’est  la  science 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Faute  de  vins  d’elite, 

Sabler  ceux  du  canton  : 
Preferer  Marguerite 
Aux  dames  du  grand  ton : 

De  joie  et  de  tendresse 
Rempiir  tous  ses  instans ; 

Eh  gai ! c’est  la  sagesse 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Dire  au  ciel : Je  me  fie, 

Mon  pere,  a ta  bonte  ; 

De  ma  philosophie 
Pardonne  le  gaite : 

Que  ma  saison  derniere 
Soit  encore  un  printemps ; 

Eh  gai ! c’est  la  priere 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Vous,  pauvres  pleins  d’envie? 
Vous,  riches  desireux, 

Vous,  dont  le  char  devie 
Apres  un  cours  heureux  ; 
Vous,  qui  perdrez  peut-etre 
Des  titres  eclatans. 

Eh  gai ! prenez  pour  maitre 
Le  gros  Roger  Bontemps. 


256 


TH^;  PARIS  SKETCH  BUOii, 


JOLLY  JACK. 

When  fierce  political  debate 

Throughout  the  isle  was  storming, 

And  Rads  attacked  the  throne  and  state, 
And  Tories  tlie  reforming, 

To  calm  the  furious  rage  of  each. 

And  right  the  land  demented. 

Heaven  sent  us  J0II3"  Jack,  to  teach 
The  way  to  be  contented. 


Jack’s  bed  was  straw,  ’twas  warm  and  soft, 
His  chair,  a three-legged  stool ; 

His  broken  jug  was  emptied  oft. 

Yet,  somehow,  always  full. 

His  mistress’  portrait  decked  the  wall. 

His  mirror  had  a crack  ; 

Yet,  gay  and  glad,  though  this  was  all 
His  wealth,  lived  Jolly  Jack. 


To  give  advice  to  avarice. 

Teach  pride  its  mean  condition. 

And  preach  good  sense  to  dull  pretence, 
Was  honest  Jack’s  high  mission. 

Our  simple  statesman  found  his  rule 
Of  moral  in  the  flagon, 

And  held  his  philosophic  school 

Beneath  the  “ George  and  Dragon.” 


When  village  Solons  cursed  the  Lords, 
And  called  the  malt-tax  sinful. 

Jack  heeded  not  their  angry  words. 
But  smiled,  and  drunk  his  skinful. 
And  when  men  wasted  health  and  life, 
In  search  of  rank  and  riches. 

Jack  marked,  aloof,  the  paltry  strife. 
And  wore  his  threadbare  breeches. 


FOUR  (MTT/^T-ONS  OF  BfiRANGER. 


267 


‘‘  I enter  not  the  church, he  said, 
“ But  ril  not  seek  to  rob  it ; ” 
So  worthy  Jack  Joe  Miller  read, 
While  others  studied  Cobbett. 
His  talk  it  was  of  feast  and  fun ; 

His  guide  tlie  Almanack  ; 

From  3'outh  to  age  thus  gayly  ran 
The  life  of  Jollv  Jack- 


And  when  Jack  [u-ayed,  as  oft  he  would. 

He  humbly  thanked  his  Maker; 

“ I am,”  said  he,  O Feather  good ! 

Nor  Catholic  nor  (Quaker  : 

Give  each  his  creed,  let  each  proclaim 
His  catalogue  of  curses  ; 

I trust  in  Thee,  and  not  in  them, 

In  Thee,  and  in  TI13'  mercies ! 


‘‘Forgive  me  if,  midst  all  Thj^  works, 

No  hint  I see  of  damning  ; 

And  think  there’s  faith  among  the  Turks. 

And  hope  for  e’en  the  Brahmin. 
Harmless  my  mind  is,  and  m3'  mirth, 

And  kindl3'  is  my  laughter  ; 

I cannot  see  tlie  smiling  earth. 

And  think  there’s  hell  hereafter.” 


Jack  died  ; he  left  no  legac3'. 

Save  that  his  story  teaches  : — 
Content  to  peevish  poverty  ; 

Humilit\'  to  riches. 

Ye  scornful  great,  3'e  envious  small, 
Come,  follow  in  his  track  ; 

We  all  were  happier,  if  we  all 
Would  copy  Jolly  Jack. 

17 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  AND  MELODRAMAS. 


There  are  three  kinds  of  drama  in  France,  which  you  may 
subdivide  as  much  as  you  please. 

There  is  the  old  classical  drama,  wellnigh  dead,  and  full 
time  too : old  tragedies,  in  which  half  a dozen  characters  ap- 
pear, and  spout  sonorous  Alexandrines  for  half  a dozen  hours. 
The  fair  Rachel  has  been  tiying  to  revive  this  genre^  and  to 
untomb  Racine ; but  be  not  alarmed,  Racine  will  never  come 
to  life  again,  and  cause  audiences  to  weep  as  of  yore.  Madame 
Rachel  can  only  galvanize  the  corpse,  not  revivify  it.  Ancient 
French  tragedy,  red-heeled,  patched,  and  be-periwigged,  lies 
in  the  grave  ; and  it  is  only  the  ghost  of  it  that  we  see,  which 
the  fair  Jewess  has  raised.  Tliere  are  classical  comedies  in 
verse,  too,  wherein  the  knavish  valets,  rakish  heroes,  stolid  old 
guardians,  and  smart,  free-spoken  serving- women,  discourse  in 
Alexandrines,  as  loud  as  the  Horaces  or  the  Cid.  An  English- 
man will  seldom  reconcile  himself  to  the  roulement  of  the  verses, 
and  the  painful  recurrence  of  the  rli3’mes ; for  my  part,  I had 
rather  go  to  Madame  Saqui’s  or  see  Deburau  dancing  on  a rope  : 
his  lines  are  quite  as  natural  and  poetical. 

Then  there  is  the  corned}'  of  the  cla.y,  of  which  Monsieur 
Scribe  is  the  father.  Good  heavens ! with  what  a number  of 
gay  colonels,  smart  widows,  and  sill}'  husbands  has  that  gentle- 
man peopled  the  play-books.  How  that  unfortunate  seventh 
commandment  has  been  maltreated  by  him  and  his  disciples. 
You  will  see  four  pieces,  at  the  Gymnase,  of  a night ; and  so 
sure  as  you  see  them,  four  husbands  shall  be  wickedly  used. 
When  is  this  joke  to  cease?  Mon  Dieu ! Play- writers  have 
handled  it  for  about  two  thousand  years,  and  the  public,  like  a 
great  baby,  must  have  the  tale  repeated  to  it  over  and  over 
again. 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  AND  MELODRAMAS. 


2u\) 


Finally,  there  is  the  Drama,  that  great  monster  which  has 
sprung  into  life  of  late  years  ; and  which  is  said,  but  I don’t 
believe  a word  of  it,  to  have  Shakspeare  for  a father.  If  Mon- 
sieur Scribe’s  plays  may  l)e  said  to  be  so  many  ingenious  ex- 
am i>les  how  to  break  one  commandment,  the  drome  is  a grand 
and  general  chaos  of  them  ail ; nay,  several  crimes  are  added, 
not  prohibited  in  the  Decalogue,  which  was  written  before 
dramas  were.  Of  the  drama,  Victor  Hugo  and  Dumas  are  the 
well-known  and  fespectable  guardians.  Eveiy  piece  Victor 
Hugo  has  written,  since  “ Hernani,”  has  contained  a monster 
— a delightful  monster,  saved  by  one  virtue.  There  is  Tri- 
boiilet,  a foolish  monster  ; Lucrece  Borgia,  a maternal  monster  ; 
Mary  Tudor,  a religious  monster  ; Monsieur  Quasimodo,  a hump- 
back monster;  and  others,  that  might  be  named,  whose  mon- 
strosities we  are  induced  to  i)ai‘don  — nay,  admiringly  to  wit- 
ness — because  they  are  agreeably  mingled  with  some  exquisite 
displa}"  of  affection.  And,  as  the  great  Hugo  has  one  monster 
to  each  play,  the  great  Dumas  has,  ordinaril}',  half  a dozen,  to 
whom  murder  is  nothing  ; common  intrigue,  and  simple  break- 
age of  the  before-mentioned  commandment,  nothing  ; but  who 
live  and  move  in  a vast,  delightful  complication  of  crime,  that 
cannot  be  easily  conceived  in  Phigland,  much  less  described. 

When  I think  over  the  number  of  crimes  that  I have  seen 
Mademoiselle  Georges,  for  instance,  commit,  I am  filled  with 
wonder  at  her  greatness,  and  the  greatness  of  the  poets  who 
have  conceived  these  charming  horrors  for  her.  I have  seen 
her  make  love  to,  and  murder,  her  sons,  in  the  “Tour  de 
Nesle.”  I have  seen  her  poison  a company  of  no  less  than 
nine  gentlemen,  at  Ferrara,  wuth  an  affectionate  son  in  the 
number ; I have  seen  her,  as  Madame  de  Brinvilliers,  kill  off 
numbers  of  respectable  relations  in  the  first  four  acts  ; and,  at 
the  last,  be  actually  burned  at  the  stake,  to  which  she  comes 
shuddering,  ghastly,  barefooted,  and  in  a white  sheet.  Sweet 
excitement  of  tender  sjunpathies  ! Such  tragedies  are  not  feo 
good  as  a real,  downright  execution  ; but,  in  point  of  interest, 
the  next  thing  to  it : with  wdiat  a number  of  moral  emotions 
do  the}^  fill  the  breast ; with  what  a hatred  for  vice,  and  yet  a 
true  pit}"  and  respect  for  that  grain  of  virtue  that  is  to  be  found 
in  us  all : our  blood}",  daughter-loving  Brinvilliers  ; our  warm- 
hearted, poisonous  Lucretia  Borgia ; above  all,  what  a smart 
appetite  for  a cool  supper  afterwards,  at  the  Cafe  Anglais, 
when  the  horrors  of  the  play  act  as  a piquant  sauce  to  the 
supper ! 

Or,  to  speak  more  seriously,  and  to  come,  at  last,  to  the 


260 


THE  PARTS  SICETCH  BOOK. 


point.  After  having  seen  most  of  the  grand  dramas  which 
have  been  produced  at  Paris  for  the  last  half-dozen  j ears,  and 
thinking  over  all  that  one  has  seen, — the  fictitious  murders, 
rapes,  adulteries,  and  other  crimes,  by  which  one  has  been 
interested  and  excited,  — a man  ma}'  take  leave  to  be  heartil}" 
ashamed  of  the  manner  in  which  he  has  spent  his  time  ; and 
of  the  hideous  kind  of  mental  intoxication  in  which  he  has  per- 
mitted himself  to  indulge. 

Nor  are  simple  society  outrages  the  onty  sort  of  crime  in 
which  the  spectator  of  Paris  plays  has  permitted  himself  to 
indulge  ; he  has  recreated  himself  with  a deal  of  blasphem}" 
besides,  and  has  passed  man}"  pleasant  evenings  in  beholding 
religion  defiled  and  ridiculed. 

Allusion  has  been  made,  in  a former  paper,  to  a fashion  that 
latel}"  obtained  in  France,  and  which  went  b3^  the  name  of 
Catholic  reaction  ; and  as,  in  this  happy  countr}',  fashion  is 
everything,  we  have  had  not  merely"  Catholic  pictures  and 
quasi  religious  books,  but  a number  of  Catholic  plays  have 
been  produced,  very  edifying  to  the  frequenters  of  the  theatres 
or  the  Boulevards,  who  have  learned  more  about  religion  from 
these  performances  than  they  have  acquired,  no  doubt,  in  the 
wfiiole  of  their  lives  before.  In  the  course  of  a veiy  few  yeair 
w'e  have  seen  — “•The  Wandering  Jew  : ” “Belshazzar’s  Feast 
“Nebuchadnezzar:”  and  the  “Massacre  of  the  Innocents;’ 
“ Joseph  and  his  Brethren  ; ” “ The  Passage  of  the  Red  Sea ; ’ 
and  “ The  Deluge.” 

The  great  Durnas,  like  Madame  Sand  before  mentioned,  has 
brought  a vast  quantity  of  religion  before  the  foot-lights. 
There  was  his  famous  tragedy  of  “ Caligula,”  which,  be  it 
spoken  to  the  shame  of  the  Paris  critics,  was  coldl}'  received ; 
nay,  actually  hissed,  by  them.  And  why?  Because,  sa3^s 
Dumas,  it  contained  a great  deal  too  much  pietv  for  the 
rogues.  The  public,  he  says,  was  much  more  religious,  and 
understood  him  at  once. 

“ As  for  the  critics,”  says  he,  nobly,  “ let  those  who  cried 
out  against  the  immorality  of  Antoiy  and  Marguerite  de  Bour- 
gogne, reproach  me  for  the  chastity  of  Messalinn.''’  (This  dear 
creature  is  the  heroine  of  the  pla3'  of  “ Caligula.”)  “ It  mat- 
ters little  to  me.  These  people  have  but  seen  the  form  of  1113' 
work : the3’  have  walked  round  the  tent,  but  have  not  seen  the 
arch  which  it  covered  ; they  have  examined  the  vases  and  can- 
dles of  the  altar,  but  have  not  opened  the  tabernacle  ! 

“The  public  alone  has,  instinctiveh',  comprehended  that 
there  was,  beneath  this  outward  sign,  an  inwaixl  and  myste^ 


FRENCH  I)RA]\IAS  AND  MELoDRAMAS.  261 


riovis  grace  : it  followed  the  action  of  the  piece  in  all  its  serpen- 
tine windings  ; it  listened  fur  four  hours,  with  [)ioiis  attention 
{ncec  recueillement  et  to  the  sound  of  this  rolling  river 

of  thoughts,  which  nmv  have  ap[)eared  to  it  new  and  bold,  per- 
lmi)S,  but  chaste  and  grave  ; and  it  retired,  with  its  head  on 
its  breast,  like  a man  who  had  just  perceived,  in  a dream,  the 
solution  of  a problem  which  he  has  long  and  vainl}'  sought  in 
his  waking  hours.” 

Yon  see  that  not  onh’  Saint  Sand  is  an  apostle,  in  Jier  way ; 
but  Saint  Dumas  is  another.  We  have  people  in  England  who 
write  for  bread,  like  Dumas  and  Sand,  and  are  paid  so  much 
for  their  line  ; but  the}'  don’t  set  up  for  prophets.  IMrs.  Trol- 
lope has  never  declared  that  her  novels  are  inspired  bv  heaven  ; 
Air.  Buckstone  has  written  a great  number  of  farces,  and  never 
talked  about  the  altar  and  the  tabernacle.  Even  Sir  Edward 
Bulwer  (who,  on  a similar  occasion,  when  the  critics  found 
lault  witli  a play  of  his.  nnswered  them  by  a prettv  decent 
declaration  of  his  own  imuits.)  never  ventured  to  say  that  he 
had  received  a divine  mission,  and  was  uttering  tive-act  reve- 
lations. 

All  things  considered,  the  traged}'  of  Caligula”  is  a decent 
tragedy  ; as  decent  as  the  decent  characters  of  the  hero  and 
lieroine  can  allow  it  to  be  ; it  may  be  almost  said,  provokingly 
decent:  but  this,  it  must  be  remembered,  is  the  characteristic 
of  the  modern  French  school  (nW^  English  school  too)  ; 

and  if  the  writer  take  the  character  of  a remarkable  scoundrel, 
it  is  ten  to  one  but  he  turns  out  an  amiable  fellow,  in  whom  we 
liave  all  the  warmest  sympathy.  “Caligula”  is  killed  at  the 
end  of  the  performance  ; Alessalina  is  comparatively  well-be- 
haved ; and  the  sacred  part  of  the  performance,  the  tabernacle- 
characters  apart  from  the  mere  “vase”  and  “candlestick” 
personages,  mav  be  said  to  be  depicted  in  the  person  of  a 
Christian  convert.  Stella,  who  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
converted  by  no  less  a person  than  Alary  Alagdalene,  when  she, 
Stella^  was  staying  on  a visit  to  her  aunt,  near  Narbonne. 

Stella  (confimumt.)  Yoila 

Que  je  vois  s’avancer,  sans  pilote  et  sans  rames, 

Une  barque  portant  deux  homines  et  deux  femmes, 

Et,  spectacle  inoui  qui  me  ravit  encor, 

Tons  quatre  avaient  an  front  line  aureole  d’or 
D’ou  partaient  des  rayons  de  si  vive  lumiere 
Que  je  fiis  obligee  a baisser  la  paupiere ; 

Et,  lorsque  je  rouvris  les  yeux  avec  effroi, 

Les  voyageurs  divins  etaient  aiipres  de  moi. 

Un  jour  de  cliacun  d’eux  et  dans  toute  ea  gloire 


262 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Je  te  raconterai  la  marveilleuse  histoire, 

Et  tu  I’adoreras,  j’espere ; en  ce  moment, 

Ma  m^re,  il  te  suitit  de  savoir  seulement 
Que  tons  quatre  venaient  du  fond  de  la  Syrie  : 

Un  edit  les  avait  bannis  de  leur  patrie, 

Et,  se  faisant  bourreaux,  des  hommes  irrites, 

Sans  avirons,  sans  eau,  sans  pain  et  garrotes, 

Sur  une  frele  barque  echouee  au  rivage, 

Les  avaient  a la  mer  pousses  dans  un  orage. 

Mais  a peine  I’esquif  eut-il  touche  les  dots 
Qu’au  cantique  chante  par  les  saints  matelots, 

L’ouragan  replia  ses  ailes  fremissantes, 

Que  la  mer  aplanit  ses  vagues  mugissantes, 

Et  qu’un  soleil  plus  pur,  reparaissant  aux  cieux, 

Enveloppa  I’esquif  d’un  cercle  radieux ! . . . 

Jdnia.  — Mais  c’etait  un  prodige. 

Stella. — Un  miracle,  ma  mfere ! 

Leurs  fers  tomberent  seuls,  Teau  cessa  d’etre  amere, 

‘ Et  deux  fois  chaque  jour  le  bateau  fut  couvert 

D ’une  manne  pareille  a celle  du  desert: 

C’est  ainsi  que,  pousses  par  une  main  celeste, 

Je  les  vis  aborder. 

Juki  A.  — Oh ! dis  vite  le  reste  ! 

Stella.  — A I’aube,  trois  d’entre  eux  quitterent  la  maison  : 
Marthe  prit  le  chemin  qui  rnene  a Tarascon, 

Lazare  et  Maximin  celui  de  Massilie, 

Et  celle  qui  resta  ....  c’etait  la  plus  jolie,  (how  truly  French!) 
Kous  faisant  appeler  vers  le  milieu  du  jour, 

Demanda  si  les  monts  ou  les  bois  d’alentour 
Cachaient  qiielque  retraite  inconnue  et  profonde, 

Qui  la  pht  separer  a tout  jamais  du  monde 

Aquila  se  souvint  qu’il  avait  penetre 
Dans  un  antre  sauvage  et  de  tous  ignore, 

Grotte  creusee  aux  flancs  de  ces  Alpes  sublimes, 

Ou  I’aigle  fait  son  aire  au-dessus  des  abimes. 

II  offrit  cet  asile,  et  des  le  lendemain 

Tous  deux,  pour  I’y  guider,  nous  Oions  en  chemin. 

Le  soir  du  second  jour  nous  touchames  sa  base  : 

La,  tombant  a genoux  dans  une  sainte  extase, 

Elle  pria  long-temps,  puis  vers  I’antre  inconnu, 

Denouant  se  cliaussure,  elle  marcha  pied  nu. 

Nos  prieres,  nos  cris  resterent  sans  reponses  : 

Au  milieu  des  cailloux,  des  epines,  des  ronces. 

Nous  la  vimes  monter,  un  baton  a la  main, 

Et  ce  n’est  qu’arrivee  au  terme  du  chemin, 

Qu’enfin  elle  tomba  sans  force  et  sans  haleine  .... 

JuNiA.  — Comment  la  nommait-on,  ma  fille  ? 

Stella.  — Madeleine. 

TVnlking,  says  Stella,  by  the  sea-shore,  “A  bark  drew  near, 
that  had  nor  sail  nor  oar  ; two  women  and  two  men  the  vessel 
bore  : each  of  that  crew,  ’twas  wondrous  to  behold,  wore  round 
his  head  a ring  of  blazing  gold  ; from  which  such  radiance  glit- 
tered all  around,  that  I was  fain  to  look  towards  the  ground* 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  AND  AIELODRAMAS. 


2G3 


Aid  when  once  more  I raised  my  frightened  eyne,  before  me 
stood  the  travellers  divine  ; their  rank,  the  glorious  lot  that 
each  befell,  at  better  season,  mother,  will  I tell.  Of  this  anon  : 
the  time  will  come  when  thou  shalt  learn  to  worship  as  I worship 
now.  Suffice  it,  that  from  Syria’s  land  they  came  ; an  edict 
from  their  countiy  banished  them.  Fierce,  angry  men  had 
seized  upon  the  four,  and  launched  them  in  that  vessel  from  the 
shore.  They  launched  these  victims  on  the  waters  rude  ; nor 
rudder  gave  to  steer,  nor  bi-ead  for  food.  As  the  doomed  vessel 
cleaves  the  stormy  main,  that  pious  crew  uplifts  a sacred  strain  ; 
the  angry  waves  are  silent  as  it  sings  ; the  storm,  awe-stricken, 
folds  its  quivering  wings.  A purer  sun  appears  the  heavens  to 
light,  and  wraps  the  little  bark  in  radiance  bright. 

“ JuNiA.  — Sure,  ’twas  a prodig3\ 

“Stella.  — A miracle.  Spontaneous  from  their  hands  the 
fetters  fell.  The  salt  sea-wave  grew  fresh,  and,  twice  a daj^ 
manna  (like  that  which  on  the  desert  la}'^)  covered  the  bark  and 
fed  them  on  their  way.  Thus,  hither  *led,  at  heaven’s  divine 
behest,  I saw  them  land — 

“JuNiA.  — My  daughter,  tell  the  rest. 

“Stella. — Three  of  the  four,  our  mansion  left  at  dawn. 
One,  Martha,  took  the  road  to  Tarascon  ; Lazarus  and  Maxi- 
min  to  Massily ; but  one  remained  (the  fairest  of  the  three), 
who  asked  us,  if  i’  the  woods  or  mountains  near,  there  chanced 
to  be  some  cavern  lone  and  drear ; where  she  might  hide,  for 
ever,  from  all  men.  It  chanced,  m}^  cousin  knew  of  such  a 
den  ; deep  hidden  in  a mountain’s  hoary  breast,  on  which  the 
eagle  builds  his  aiiy  nest.  And  thither  offered  he  the  saint 
to  guide.  Next  day  upon  the  journe}^  forth  we  hied  ; and  came, 
at  the  secohd  eve,  with  weaiy  pace,  unto  the  lonel}^  mountain’s 
rugged  base.  Here  the  worn  traveller,  falling  on  her  knee,  did 
pra}^  awhile  in  sacred  ecstasy’ ; and,  drawing  off  her  sandals 
from  her  feet,  marched,  naked,  towards  that  desolate  retreat. 
No  answer  made  she  to  our  cries  or  groans  ; but  walking  midst 
the  prickles  and  rude  stones,  a staff  in  hand,  we  saw  her  up- 
wards toil ; nor  ever  did  she  pause,  nor  rest  the  while,  save  at 
the  entiy  of  that  savage  den.  Here,  powerless  and  panting, 
fell  she  then. 

“ Junta.  — What  was  her  name,  my  daughter? 

“ Stella.  Magdalen.” 

Here  the  translator  must  pause  — having  no  inclination  to 
enter  “ the  tabernacle,”  in  company  with  such  a spotless  high* 
priest  as  Monsieur  Dumas. 


264 


I'HE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


/ 


/ 

Something  “ tabernacular  ” may  be  found  in  Dumas’s  famous 
piece  of  “ Don  Juan  de  Marana.”  The  poet  has  laid  the  scene 
of  his  play  in  a vast  number  of  places : in  heaven  (where  we 
have  the  Virgin  Mary  and  little  angels,  in  blue,  swinging  cen- 
sers before  her!)  — on  earth,  under  the  earth,  and  in  a place 
still  lower,  but  not  mentionable  to  ears  polite  ; and  the  plot,  as 
it  appears  from  a dialogue  between  a good  and  a bad  angel, 
with  which  the  pla}'  commences,  turns  upon  a contest  between 
these  two  worthies  for  the  possession  of  the  soul  of  a member  of 
the  family  of  Marana. 

Don  Juan  de  Marana”  not  only  resembles  his  namesake, 
celebrated  b}^  Mozart  and  Moliere,  in  his  peculiar  successes  . 
among  the  ladies,  but  possesses  further  qualities  which  render 
his  character  eminentl}^  fitting  for  stage  representation : he 
unites  the  virtues  of  Lovelace  and  Lacenaire ; he  blasphemes 
upon  all  occasions  ; he  murders,  at  the  slightest  provocation, 
and  without  the  most  trifling  remorse  ; he  overcomes  ladies  of 
rigid  virtue,  ladies  of  eas}"  virtue,  and  ladies  of  no  virtue  at  all; 
and  the  poet,  inspired  by  the  contemplation  of  such  a character, 
has  depicted  his  hero’s  adventures  and  conversation  with  won- 
derful feeling  and  truth. 

The  first  act  of  the  play  contains  a half-dozen  of  murders 
and  intrigues ; which  would  have  sufficed  humbler  genius  than 
M.  Dumas’s,  for  the  completion  of,  at  least,  half  a dozen  trage- 
dies. In  the  second  act  our  hero  flogs  his  elder  brother,  and 
runs  away  with  his  sister-in-law ; in  the  third,  he  fights  a duel 
with  a rival,  and  kills  him : whereupon  the  mistress  of  his 
victim  takes  poison,  and  dies,  in  great  agonies,  on  the  stage. 
In  the  fourth  act,  Don  Juan,  having  entered  a church  for  the, 
purpose  of  carrying  off  a nun,  with  whom  he  is  in  love,  is  seized 
by  the  statue  of  one  of  the  ladies  whom  he  has  previously  vic- 
timized, and  made  to  behold  the  ghosts  of  all  those  unfortunate 
persons  whose  deaths  he  has  caused. 

This  is  a most  edifying  spectacle.  The  ghosts  rise  solemnl}^ 
each  in  a white  sheet,  preceded  by  a wax-candle  ; and,  having 
declared  their  names  and  qualities,  call,  in  chorus,  for  ven- 
geance upon  Don  Juan,  as  thus  : — 


Don  Sandoval  loquitur. 

“ I am  Don  Sandoval  d’Ojedo.  I pla^^ed  against  Don  Juan 
my  fortune,  the  tomb  of  my  fathers,  and  the  heart  of  m3’ 
luistress  ; — I lost  all : I i)laved  against  him  m3’  life,  and  I lost 
it.  V engeance  against  the  murderer  I vengeance  ! ” — ( Th9  can^ 
die  goes  out,  ^ 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  AND  MELODRAMAS. 


265 


The  candle  goes  out^  and  an  angel  descends  — a flaming 
sword  in  his  hand  — and  asks  : ‘‘Is  there  no  voice  in  favor  of 
Don  Juan?”  when  lo ! Don  Juan’s  father  (like  one  of  those 
ingenious  toys  called  “Jack-in-the-box,”)  jumps  up  from  his 
coffin,  and  demands  grace  for  his  son. 

When  Martha  the  nun  returns,  having  prepared  all  things 
for  her  elopement,  she  finds  Don  Juan  fainting  upon  the 
ground.  — “I  am  no  longer  3"our  husband,”  says  he,  upon 
coming  to  himself;  “I  am  no  longer  Don  Juan  ; 1 am  Brother 
Juan  the  Trappist.  Sister  Martha,  recollect  that  3^011  must 
die ! ” 

This  was  a most  cruel  blow  upon  Sister  Martha,  who  is  no 
less  a person  than  an  angel,  an  angel  in  disguise  — the  good 
spirit  of  the  house  of  Alarana,  who  has  gone  to  the  length  of 
losing  her  wings  and  forfeiting  her  place  in  heaven,  in  order  to 
keep  compan3^  with  Don  Juan  on  earth,  and,  if  possible,  to  con- 
vert him.  Alread3',  in  her  angelic  character,  she  had  exhorted 
him  to  repentance,  but  in  vain  ; for,  while  she  stood  at  one 
elbow,  pouring  not  merely  hints,  but  long  sermons,  into  his 
ear,  at  the  other  elbow  stood  a bad  spirit,  grinning  and  sneer- 
ing at  all  her  pious  counsels,  and  obtaining  b3’  far  the  greater 
share  of  the  Don’s  attention. 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  utter  contempt  with  which  Don 
Juan  treats  her,  — in  spite  of  his  dissolute  courses,  which  must 
shock  her  virtue,  — and  his  impolite  neglect,  which  must  wound 
her  vanity,  the  poor  creature  (who,  from  having  been  accus- 
tomed to  better  company,  might  have  been  presumed  to  have 
had  better  taste),  the  unfortunate  angel  feels  a certain  inclina- 
tion for  the  Don,  and  actually  flies  up  to  heaven  to  ask  permis- 
sion to  remain  wdth  him  on  earth. 

And  when  the  curtain  .draws  up,  to  the  sound  of  harps,  and 
discovers  white-robed  angels  walking  in  the  clouds,  we  find 
the  angel  of  Marana  upon  her  knees,  uttering  the  following 
address : — 


LE  BON  ANGE. 

Vierge,  a qui  le  calice  a la  liqueur  amere 
Fut  si  souvent  oflert, 

M^re,  que  I’on  nomma  la  douloureuse  mere. 

Taut  vous  avez  souffert! 

Vous,  dont  les  yeux  divins  sur  la  terre  des  hommes 
Out  verse  plus  de  pleurs 

Que  VOS  pieds  n’ont  depuis,  dans  ie  ciel  ou  nous  sommee. 
Fait  eclore  de  fleurs. 


266 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Vase  Selection,  etoile  matinale, 

Miroir  de  purete, 

Vous  qui  priez  pour  nous,  d’une  voix  virginale, 

La  supreme  bonte ; 

A mon-tour,  aujourd’liui,  bienheureuse  Marie, 

Je  tombe  a vos  genoux ; 

Daignez  done  m’ecouter,  ear  e’est  vous  que  je  prie^ 

Vous  qui  priez  pour  nous. 

Which  may  be  thus  interpreted  : — 

O Virgin  blest ! by  whom  the  bitter  draught 
So  often-  has  been  quaffed. 

That,  for  thy  sorrow,  thou  art  named  by  us 
The  Mother  Dolorous ! 

Thou,  from  whose  eyes  have  fallen  more  tears  of  woe. 

Upon  the  earth  below. 

Than  ’neath  thy  footsteps,  in  this  heaven  of  ours, 

Have  risen  flowers ! 

O beaming  morning  star!  0 chosen  vase! 

O mirror  of  all  grace  ! 

Who,  with  thy  virgin  voice,  dost  ever  pray 
Man’s  sins  away ; 

Bend  down  thine  ear,  and  list,  O blessed  saint! 

Unto  my  sad  complaint ; 

Mother ! to  thee  I kneel,  on  thee  I call, 

Who  hearest  all. 

She  proceeds  to  request  that  she  may  be  allowed  to  return  to 
earth,  and  follow  the  fortunes  of  Don  Juan ; and,  as  there  is 
one  difficulty,  or,  to  use  her  own  words,  — 

Mais,  comme  vous  savez  qu’aux  voutes  eternelles, 

Malgre  moi,  tend  rnon  vol, 

Soufflez  sur  mon  etoile  et  detachez  mes  ailes, 

Pour  m’ enchamer  an  sol ; 

her  request  is  granted,  her  star  is  blown  out  (O  poetic  allusion  !) 
and  she  descends  to  earth  to  love,  and  to  go  mad,  and  to  die 
for  Don  Juan  ! 

The  reader  will  require  no  further  explanation,  in  order  to 
be  satisfied  as  to  the  moral  of  this  pla}^ : but  is  it  not  a ver}^ 
bitter  satire  upon  the  countiy,  which  calls  itself  the  politest 
nation  in  the  world,  that  the  incidents,  the  indecency,  the 
coarse  blasphemy,  and  the  vulgar  wit  of  this  piece,  should  find 
admirers  among  the  public,  and  procure  reputation  for  the 
author?  Could  not  the  Government,  which  has  re-established, 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  AND  MELODRAMAS. 


267 


in  a manner,  the  theatrical  censorship,  and  forbids  or  alters 
plays  which  touch  on  politics,  exert  the  same  guardianship  over 
public  morals  ? The  honest  English  reader,  who  has  a faith  in 
his  clerg3unan,  and  is  a regular  attendant  at  Sunday  worship, 
will  not  be  a little  surprised  at  the  march  of  intellect  among  our 
neighbors  across  the  Channel,  and  at  the  kind  of  consideration 
in  which  the^^  hold  their  religion.  Here  is  a man  wdio  seizes 
upon  saints  and  angels,  merel}'  to  put  sentiments  in  their 
mouths  which  might  suit  a ii3unph  of  Druiy  Lane.  He  shows 
heaven,  in  order  that  he  ina3^  cany  debauch  into  it ; and  avails 
himself  of  the  most  sacred  and  sublime  parts  of  our  creed  as  a 
vehicle  for  a scene-painter’s  skill,  or  an  occasion  for  a hand- 
some actress  to  wear  a new  dress. 

M.  Dumas’s  piece  of  “ Kean  ” is  not  quite  so  sublime  ; it  was 
brought  out  ly’  the  author  as  a satire  upon  the  French  critics, 
who,  to  their  credit  be  it  spoken,  had  generall3^  attacked  him, 
and  was  intended  b3"  him,  and  received  by  the  public,  as  a 
faithful  portraiture  of  English  manners.  As  such,  it  merits 
special  observation  and  praise.  In  the  first  act  3^011  find  a 
Countess  and  an  Ambassadress,  whose  conversation  relates 
purel3^  to  the  great  actor.  All  the  ladies  in  London  are  in  love 
with  him,  especiall3^  the  two  present.  As  for  the  Ambassa- 
dress, she  prefers  him  to  her  husband  (a  matter  of  course  in 
all  French  pla3’s),  and  to  a more  seducing  person  still  — no 
less  a person  than  the  Prince  of  Wales  ! who  presentl3^  waits 
on  the  ladies,  and  joins  in  their  conversation  concerning  Kean. 
“This  man,”  says  his  Ro3'al  Highness,  “is  the  veiy  pink  of 
fashion.  Bruinmell  is  nobod v when  compared  to  him  ; and  I 
m3'self  onl3^  an  insignificant  private  gentleman.  He  has  a repu- 
tation among  ladies,  for  which  I sigii  in  vain  ; and  spends  an 
income  twice  as  great  as  mine.”  This  admirable  historic  touch 
at  once  paints  the  actor  and  the  Prince  ; the  estimation  in  which 
the  one  was  held,  and  the  modest  econom3'  for  which  the  other 
was  so  notorious. 

Then  we  have  Kean,  at  a place  called  the  Trou,  de  Charhon^ 
the  “Coal  Hole,”  where,  to  the  edification  of  the  public,  he 
engages  in  a fist3"  combat  with  a notorious  boxer.  This  scene 
was  received  by  the  audience  with  loud  exclamations  of  delight, 
and  commented  on,  by  the  journals,  as  a faultless  picture  of 
English  manners.  “ The  Coal  Hole  ” being  on  the  banks  of  the 
Thames,  a nobleman  — Lord  Melhourn  ! — has  chosen  the  tavern 
as  a rendezvous  for  a gang  of  pirates,  who  are  to  have  their 
ship  in  waiting,  in  order  to  carr3’  off  a 3"Oung  lad>^  with  whom 
his  lordship  is  enamored.  It  need  not  be  said  that  Kean  arrives 


268 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


at  the  nick  of  time,  saves  the  innocent  Meess  Anna^  and  exposes 
the  infamy  of  the  Peer.  A violent  tirade  against  noblemen 
ensues,  and  Lord  Melbourn  slinks  awa}',  disappointed,  to  medi- 
tate revenge.  Kean’s  triumphs  continue  through  all  the  acts: 
the  Ambassadress  falls  madly  in  love  with  him  ; the  Prince 
becomes  furious  at  his  ill  success,  and  the  Ambassador  dread- 
fully jealous.  The}' pursue  Kean  to  his  dressing-room  at  the 
theatre  ; where,  unluckil}',  the  Ambassadress  herself  has  taken 
refuge.  Dreadful  quarrels  ensue  ; the  tragedian  grows  suddenly 
mad  upon  the  stage,  and  so  cruelly  insults  the  Prince  of  Wales 
that  his  Royal  Highness  determines  to  send  him  to  Botany  Bay. 
His  sentence,  however,  is  commuted  to  banishment  to  New 
York ; whither,  of  course.  Miss  Anna  accompanies  him  ; re- 
warding him,  previously,  with  her  hand  and  twent}^  thousand 
a year ! 

This  wonderful  performance  was  gravel}^  received  and 
admired  b}^  the  people  of  Paris : the  piece  was  considered  to 
be  decidedly  moral,  because  the  popular  candidate  was  made 
to  triumph  throughout,  and  to  triumph  in  the  most  virtuous 
manner ; for,  according  to  the  French  code  of  morals,  success 
among  women  is,  at  once,  the  proof  and  the  reward  of  virtue. 

The  sacred  personage  introduced  in  Dumas’s  pla}-  behind  a 
cloud,  figures  bodily  in  the  piece  of  the  Alassacre  of  the  Innocents., 
represented  at  Paris  last  year.  She  appears  under  a difierent 
name,  but  the  costume  is  exactly  that  of  Carlo  Dolce’s  Ma- 
donna ; and  an  ingenious  fable  is  arranged,  the  interest  of 
which  hangs  upon  the  grand  Massacre  of  the  Innocents,  per- 
petrated in  the  fifth  act.  One  of  the  chief  characters  is  Jean  le 
Precurseur who  threatens  woe  to  Herod  and  his  race,  and  is 
beheaded  by  orders  of  that  sovereign. 

In  the  Festln  de  Balthazar,  we  are  similarly  introduced  to 
Daniel,  and  the  first  scene  is  laid  by  the  waters  of  Babylon, 
where  a certain  number  of  captive  Jews  are  seated  in  mel- 
ancholv  postures  ; a Babyloninan  officer  enters,  exclaiming, 
‘‘Chantez  nous  quelques  chansons  de  Jerusalem,”  and  the 
request  is  refused  in  the  language  of  the  Psalm.  Belshazzar’s 
Feast  is  given  in  a grand  tableau,  after  Martin’s  picture.  That 
painter,  in  like  manner,  furnished  scenes  for  the  Deluge.  Vast 
numbers  of  schoolbo3's  and  children  are  brought  to  see  these 
pieces  ; the  lower  classes  delight  in  them.  The  famous  JuiJ 
Errant,  at  the  theatre  of  the  Porte  St.  Martin,  was  the  first  of 
the  kind,  and  its  prodigious  success,  no  doubt,  occasioned 
the  number  of  imitations  which  the  other  theatres  have  pro- 
duced. 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  AND  MELODRAMAS. 


269 


The  taste  of  such  exhibitions,  of  course,  every  English  per- 
son will  question  ; but  we  imist  reineinber  tlie  manners  of  the 
people  among  whom  they  are  popular  ; and,  if  1 may  be  allowed 
to  hazard  such  an  opinion,  there  is  in  eveiy  one  of  these  Boule- 
vard ma  steries,  a kind  of  rude  moral.  The  Boulevard  writers 
don’t  pretend  to  “ tabernacles”  and  divine  gifts,  like  Madame 
Sand  and  Dumas  before  mentioned.  If  they  take  a story  from' 
the  sacred  books,  they  garble  it  without  mercy,  and  take  sad 
liberties  with  the  text ; but  they  do  not  deal  in  descriptions  of 
the  agreeably  wicked,  or  ask  pity  and  admiration  for  tender- 
hearted criminals  and  philanthro[)ic  murderers,  as  their  betters 
do.  Vice  is  vice  on  the  Boulevard  ; and  it  is  fine  to  hear  the 
audience,  as  a t3u-ant  king  roars  out  cruel  sentences  of  death, 
or  a bereaved  mother  pleads  for  the  life  of  her  child,  making 
their  remarks  on  the  circumstances  of  the  scene.  “Ah,  le 
gredin  ! ” growls  an  indignant  countiyman.  “ Quel  monstre  ! ” 
says  a grisette,  in  a fuiy.  A"ou  see  very  fat  old  men  cr3  ing  like 
babies,  and,  like  babies,  sucking  enormous  sticks  of  barle3^-sugar. 
Actors  and  audience  enter  warml3'  into  the  illusion  of  the  piece  ; 
and  so  especially  are  the  former  affected,  that  at  ranconi’s,  where 
the  battles  of  the  Empire  are  represented,  there  is  as  regular  gra- 
dation in  the  ranks  of  the  mimic  arny^  as  in  the  real  imperial 
legions.  After  a man  has  served,  with  credit,  for  a certain 
number  of  3’ears  in  the  line,  he  is  promoted  to  be  an  officer  — 
an  acting  officer.  If  he  conducts  himself  Vv^ell,  he  may  rise  to 
be  a Colonel  or  a General  of  Division  ; if  ill,  he  is  degraded 
to  the  ranks  again  ; or,  worst  degradation  of  all,  drafted  into  a 
regiment  of  Cossacks  or  Austrians.  Cossacks  is  the  lowest 
depth,  however ; nay,  it  is  said  that  the  men  who  perform  these 
Cossack  parts  receive  higher  wages  than  the  mimic  grenadiers 
and  old  guard.  The3'  will  not  consent  to  be  beaten  every  night, 
even  in  pla3' ; to  be  pursued  in  hundreds,  a handful  of 
French  ; to  fight  against  their  beloved  Emperor.  Surel3^  there 
is  fine  hearty  virtue  in  this,  and  pleasant  child-like  simplicit3\ 

So  that  while  the  drama  of  Victor  Hugo,  Dumas,  and  the 
enlightened  classes,  is  profoundl3^  immoral  and  absurd,  the 
drama  of  the  common  people  is  absurd,  if  you  will,  but  good 
and  right-hearted.  I have  made  notes  of  one  or  two  of  these 
pieces,  which  all  have  good  feeling  and  kindness  in  them,  and 
which  turn,  as  the  reader  will  see,  upon  one  or  two  favorite 
points  of  popular  morality.  A drama  that  obtained  a vast 
success  at  the  Porte  Saint  Alartin  was  “La  Duchesse  de  la 
Vauballiere.”  The  Duchess  is  the  daughter  of  a poor  farmer, 
who  was  carried  off  in  the  first  place,  and  then  married  by  M. 


270 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


le  Due  de  la  Vaiiballiere,  a terrible  roue,  the  farmer’s  landlord, 
and  the  intimate  friend  of  Philippe  d’Orleans,  the  Regent  oi 
France. 

Now  the  Duke,  in  running  awa}^  with  the  lady,  intended  to 
dispense  altogether  with  ceremony,  and  make  of  Julie  any- 
thing but  his  wife  ; but  Georges,  her  father,  and  one  Morisseau, 
a notary,  discovered  him  in  his  dastardly  act,  and  pursued  him 
to  the  veiy  feet  of  the  Regent,  who  compelled  the  pair  to  marry 
and  make  it  up. 

Julie  complies  ; but  though  she  becomes  a Duchess,  her 
heart  remains  faithful  to  her  old  flame,  Adrian,  the  doctor  ; and 
she  declares  that,  beyond  the  ceremony,  no  sort  of  intimacy 
shall  take  place  between  her  husband  and  herself. 

Then  the  Duke  begins  to  treat  her  in  the  most  ungentleman- 
like manner : he  abuses  her  in  every  possible  wa}^ ; he  intro- 
duces improper  characters  into  her  house  ; and,  finally,  becomes 
so  disgusted  with  her,  that  he  determines  to  make  away  with 
her  altogether. 

For  this  purpose,  he  sends  forth  into  the  highways  and  seizes 
a doctor,  bidding  him,  on  pain  of  death,  to  write  a poisonous 
prescription  for  Madame  la  Duchesse.  She  swallows  the  potion  ; 
and  O horror ! the  doctor  turns  out  to  be  Dr.  Adrian ; whose 
w’oe  ma}"  be  imagined,  upon  finding  that  he  has  been  thus  com- 
mitting murder  on  his  true  love  ! 

Let  not  the  reader,  however,  be  alarmed  as  to  the  fate  of  the 
heroine  ; no  heroine  of  a tragedj"  ever  yet  died  in  the  third  act ; 
and,  accordingl}",  the  Duchess  gets  up  perfect^  well  again  in 
the  fourth,  through  the  instrumentality  of  Morisseau,  the  good 
law}^er. 

And  now  it  is  that  vice  begins  to  be  really  punished.  The 
Duke,  who,  after  killing  his  wife,  thinks  it  necessary  to  retreat, 
and  take  refuge  in  Spain,  is  tracked  to  the  borders  of  that 
countiy  by  the  virtuous  notar\",  and  there  receives  such  a lesson 
as  he  will  never  forget  to  his  dying  day. 

Morisseau,  in  the  first  instance,  produces  a deed  (signed  by 
his  Holiness  the  Pope),  which  annuls  the  marriage  of  the  Duke 
de  la  Vaiiballiere  ; then  another  deed,  by  which  it  is  proved 
that  he  was  not  the  eldest  son  of  old  La  Vaiiballiere,  the  former 
Duke  ; then  another  deed,  b}^  which  he  shows  that  old  La  Van- 
balliere  (who  seems  to  have  been  a disreputable  old  fellow)  was 
a bigamist,  and  that,  in  consequence,  the  present  man,  styling 
himself  Duke,  is  illegitimate ; and  finall^^  Morisseau  brings 
forward  another  document,  which  proves  that  the  regular  Duke 
is  no  other  than  Adrian,  the  doctor] 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  AND  MELODRAMAS.  27  i 


Thus  it  is  that  love,  law,  and  pli3’sic  combined,  triumph  over 
the  horrid  machinations  of  this  star-and-gartered  libertine. 

“ Hermann  I’lvrogne  ” is  another  piece  of  the  same  order; 
and  though  not  veiy  refined,  yet  possesses  considerable  merit. 
As  in  the  case  of  the  celebrated  Cai)tain  Smith  of  Halifax,  who 
“ took  to  drinking  ratafia,  and  thought  of  poor  Miss  Bailey,”  — 
a woman  and  the  bottle  have  been  the  cause  of  Hermann’s  ruin. 
Deserted  b}'  his  mistress,  who  has  l)een  seduced  from  him  by  a 
base  Italian  Count,  Hermann,  a German  artist,  gives  himself 
entirel3"up  to  liquor  and  revenge  : but  when  he  finds  that  force, 
and  not  infidelit3',  have  been  the  cause  of  his  mistress’s  ruin, 
the  reader  can  fanc3’  the  indignant  ferocity  with  which  he  pursues 
the  infame  ravisseur.  A scene,  which  is  really  full  of  spirit,  and 
excellently  well  acted,  hei*e  ensues  ! Hermann  proposes  to  the 
Count,  on  the  eve  of  their  duel,  that  the  survivor  should  bind 
himself  to  espouse  the  unhappy  Marie  ; but  the  Count  declares 
himself  to  be  alread3^  married,  and  the  student,  finding  a duel 
impossible  (for  his  object  was  to  restore,  at  all  events,  the 
honor  of  Marie),  now  only  thinks  of  his  revenge,  and  murders 
the  Count.  Present^,  two  parties  of  men  enter  Hermann’s 
apartment : one  is  a compan3^  of  students,  who  bring  him  the 
news  that  he  has  obtained  the  prize  of  painting ; the  other 
the  policemen,  who  cany  him  to  prison,  to  suffer  the  penalt3^  of 
murder. 

I could  mention  many  more  plays  in  which  the  popular 
morality'  is  similiarly  expressed.  The  seducer,  or  rascal  of  the 
piece,  is  alway'S  an  aristocrat,  — a wicked  count,  or  licentious 
marquis,  who  is  brought  to  condign  punishment  just  before  the 
fall  of  the  curtain.  And  too  good  reason  have  the  French 
people  had  to  lay'  such  crimes  to  the  charge  of  the  aristocracy', 
who  are  expiating  now,  on  the  stage,  the  wrongs  which  they' 
did  a hundred  years  since.  The  aristocracy  is  dead  now  ; but 
the  theatre  lives  upon  traditions  : and  don’t  let  us  be  too  scorn- 
ful at  such  simple  legends  as  are  handed  down  by  the  people 
from  race  to  race.  Vulgar  prejudice  against  the  great  it  may' 
be ; but  prejudice  against  the  great  is  only  a rude  expression 
of  sympathy  with  the  poor ; long,  therefore,  may  fat  Spiders 
blubber  over  mimic  woes,  and  honest  proUtaires  shake  their 
fists,  shouting  — Gredin,  scGerat,  monstre  de  marquis  ! ” and 
such  republican  cries. 

Remark,  too,  another  development  of  this  same  popular  feel- 
ing of  dislike  against  men  in  power.  What  a number  of  plays 
and  legends  have  we  (the  writer  has  submitted  to  the  public,  in 
the  preceding  pages,  a couple  of  specimens  ; one  of  French,  and 


272 


THE  PARIS -SKETCH  BOOK. 


the  other  of  Polish  origin,)  in  which  that  great  and  powerful 
aristocrat,  the  Devil,  is  made  to  be  miserably  tricked,  humili- 
ated, and  disappointed?  A play  of  this  class,  which,  in  the 
midst  of  all  its  absurdities  and  claptraps,  had  much  of  good  in 
it,  was  called  “ Le  Maudit  des  Mers.”  Le  Maudit  is  a Dutch 
captain,  who,  in  the  midst  of  a storm,  while  his  crew  were  on 
their  knees  at  pra^^ers,  blasphemed  and  drank  punch  ; but  what 
was  his  astonishment  at  beholding  an  archangel  with  a sword 
all  covered  with  flaming  resin,  who  told  him  that  as  he,  in  this 
hour  of  danger,  was  too  daring,  or  too  wicked,  to  utter  a pra}^er, 
he  never  should  cease  roaming  the  seas  until  he  could  find  some 
being  who  would  pray  to  heaven  for  him ! 

Once  only,  in  a hundred  }'ears,  was  the  skipper  allowed  to 
land  for  this  purpose  ; and  this  piece  runs  through  four  cen- 
turies, in  as  many  acts,  describing  the  agonies  and  unavailing 
attempts  of  the  miserable  Dutchman.  Willing  to  go  an}'  lengths 
in  order  to  obtain  his  prayer,  he,  in  the  second  act,  betrays  a 
Virgin  of  the  Sun  to  a follower  of  Pizarro : and,  in  the  third, 
assassinates  the  heroic  William  of  Nassau  ; but  ever  before  the 
dropping  of  the  curtain,  the  angel  and  sword  make  their  appear- 
ance : — “ Treachery,”  says  the  spirit,  “ cannot  lessen  thy  pun- 
ishment ; — crime  will  not  obtain  thy  release  ! — A la  mer  ! a la 
mer  ! ” and  the  poor  devil  returns  to  the  ocean,  to  be  lonely,  and 
tempest- tossed,  and  sea-sick  for  a hundred  years  more. 

But  his  woes  are  destined  to  end  with  the  fourth  act.  Hav- 
ing landed  in  America,  where  the  peasants  on  the  sea-shore,  all 
dressed  in  Italian  costumes,  are  celebrating,  in  a 'quadrille,  the 
victories  of  Washington,  he  is  there  lucky  enough  to  find  a 
young  girl  to  pray  for  him.  Then  the  curse  is  I’emoved,  the 
punishment  is  over,  and  a celestial  vessel,  with  angels  on  the 
decks  and  “ sweet  little  cherubs  ” fluttering  about  the  shrouds 
and  the  poop,  appear  to  receive  him. 

This  piece  was  acted  at  Franconi’s,  where,  for  once,  an 
angel-ship  was  introduced  in  place  of  the  usual  horseman- 
ship. 

One  must  not  forget  to  mention  here,  how  the  English  nation 
is  satirized  by  our  neighbors  ; who  liave  some  droll  traditions 
regarding  us.  In  one  of  the  little  Christmas  pieces  produced 
at  the  Palais  Royal  (satires  upon  the  follies  of  the  past  twelve 
months,  on  which  all  the  small  theatres  exhaust  their  wit),  the 
celebrated  flight  of  Messrs.  Green  and  Monck  Mason  was  paro- 
died, and  created  a good  deal  of  laughter  at  the  expense  of 
John  Bull.  Two  English  noblemen,  Milor  Cricri  and  Milor 
Hanneton,  appear  as  descending  from  a balloon,  and  one  of  them 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  AND  MELODRAMAS. 


273 


*’.omnuinicates  to  the  piil)lic  the  philosophic  ohservations  which 
were  made  in  the  course  of  his  aerial  tour. 

“On  leaving  Vaiixhall,”  says  his  lordship,  “we  drank  a 
bottle  of  Madeira,  as  a health  to  the  friends  from  whom  we 
parted,  and  crunched  a few  biscuits  to  support  nature  during 
the  hours  before  lunch.  In  two  hours  we  arrived  at  Canterbuiy, 
enveloped  in  clouds  : lunch,  bottled  porter : at  Dover,  carried 
several  miles  in  a tide  of  air,  bitter  cold,  chcriy-brand}^ ; crossed 
over  the  Channel  safel}^  and  thought  with  pity  of  the  poor 
people  who  were  sickening  in  the  steamboats  below : more 
])0tUed  porter  : over  Calais,  dinner,  roast-beef  of  Old  England  ; 
near  Dunkirk,  — night  falling,  lunar  rainbow,  brand^'-and-water  ; 
night  confoundedly  thick  ; supper,  nightcap  of  rum-punch,  and 
MO  to  bed.  The  sun  lu'oke  beautifully  through  the  morning 
mist,  as  we  boiled  the  kettle  and  took  our  breakfast  over 
Cologne.  In  a few  more  hours  we  concluded  this  memorable 
voyage,  and  landed  safely  at  Weilburg,  in  good  time  for 
dinner.” 

The  joke  here  is  smart  enough  ; but  our  honest  neighbors 
make  rnaii}^  better,  wdien  the}"  are  quite  unconscious  of  the  fun. 
Let  us  leave  plays,  for  a moment,  for  poetry,  and  take  an  in- 
stance of  French  criticism,  concerning  England,  from  the  works 
of  a famous  French  exquisite  and  man  of  letters.  The  hero  of 
the  poem  addresses  his  mistress  — 

Londres,  tu  le  sais  trop,  en  fait  de  capitale, 

Est-ce  que  fit  le  ciel  de  plus  froid  et  plus  pale, 

C’est  la  ville  du  gaz,  des  uiarius,  du  brouillard ; 

On  s’y  couelie  a minuit,  er  I’on  s’y  leve  tard ; 

Ses  raouts  taut  vantes  ue  sont  qu’une  boxade, 

Sur  ses  grands  quais  jamais  e'ehelle  on  serenade, 

Mais  de  volumineux  bourgeois  pris  de  porter 
Qui  passent  sans  lever  le  front  a Westminster; 

Et  n’etait  sa  foret  de  mats  peryant  la  brume, 

- Sa  tour  dont  a minuit  le  vieil  ceil  s’allume, 

Et  tes  deux  yeux,  Zerline,  illumines  bien  plus, 

Je  dirais  que,  ma  foi,  des  romans  que  j’ai  lus, 

II  n’en  est  pas  un  seul,  plus  lourd,  plus  letliargique 
Que  cette  nation  qu’on  nomine  Britaimique ! 

The  writer  of  the  above  lines  (which  let  any  man  who  can 
translate)  is  Monsieur  Roger  de  Beauvoir,  a gentleman  who 
actually  lived  many  months  in  England,  as  an  attache  to  the 
embassy  of  M.  de  Polignac.  He  places  the  heroine  of  his  tale 
in  a petit  reduit  pres  le  Strand^  “ with  a green  and  fresh  jalousie, 
and  a large  blind,  let  dow"ii  all  day  ; you  fancied  you  w^ere 
entering  a bath  of  Asia,  as  soon  as  you  had  passed  the  per 

18 


274  THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 

fumed  threshold  of  this  charming  retreat ! ” He  next  places 
her  — 

Dans  un  square  ecarte,  morne  et  couverte  de  givre, 

Ou  se  cache  un  hotel,  aux  vieux  lions  de  cuivre ; 

and  the  hero  of  the  tale,  a young  French  poet,  who  is  in  London, 
is  truly  unhappy  in  that  village. 

Arthur  desseche  et  ineurt.  Dans  la  ville  de  Sterne, 

Rien  qu’en  voyant  le  peuple  il  a le  mal  de  raer  • 

II  n'aime  ni  le  Parc,  gai  comme  une  citerne, 

Ni  le  tir  au  pigeon,  ni  le  soda-ivater* 

Liston  ne  le  fait  plus  sourciller  ! II  rumine 

Sur  les  trottoirs  du  Strand,  droit  comme  un  echiquier. 

Centre  le  peuple  anglais,  les  negres,  la  vermine, 

' Et  les  mille  cokneys  du  peuple  boutiquier, 

Centre  tons  les  bas-hleus,  centre  les  patissi^res, 

Les  parieurs  d’Epsom,  le  gin,  le  parlement. 

La  quaterly,  le  roi,  la  pluie  et  les  libraires, 

Dont  il  ne  touche  plus,  belas  ! un  sou  d’argent ! 

Et  chaque  gentleman  lui  dit : L’heureux  poete ! 

“ L’heureux  poete  ” indeed  ! I question  if  a poet  in  this 
wide  world  is  so  happy  as  M.  de  Beauvoir,  or  has  made  such 
wonderful  discoveries.  “The  bath  of  Asia,  with  green  jalou- 
sies,” in  which  the  lady  dwells;  “the  old  hotel,  with  copper 
lions,  in  a lonel}"  square;”  — were  ever  such  things  heard  of, 
or  imagined,  but  b}^  a Frenchman?  The  sailors,  the  negroes, 
the  vermin,  whom  he  meets  in  the  street,  — how  great  and 
happ3^  are  all  these  discoveries  ! Liston  no  longer  makes  the 
happ3"  poet  frown  ; and  “ gin,”  “ cokne}^s,”  and  the  “ quaterly  ” 
have  not  the  least  effect  upon  him ! And  this  gentleman  has 
lived  man}^  months  amongst  us  ; admires  Williams  Shakspear^ 
the  “grave  et  vieux  prophete,”  as  he  calls  him,  and  never, 
for  an  instant,  doubts  that  his  description  contains  aii3dhing 
absurd  ! 

I don’t  know  whether  the  great  Dumas  has  passed  au3"  time 
in  England ; but  his  pla3^s  show  a similar  intimate  knowledge 
of  our  habits.  Thus  in  Kean^  the  stage-manager  is  made  to 
come  forward  and  address  the  pit,  with  a speech  beginning, 
‘ ‘ My  Lords  and  Gentlemen  ; ” and  a compan3^  of  Englishwomen 
are  introduced  (at  the  memorable  “ Coal  Hole”),  and  the3^  all 
wear  pinafores  ; as  if  the  British  female  were  in  the  invariable 

* The  italics  are  the  author’s  own. 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  AND  MELODRAMAS. 


275 


habit  of  wearing  this  outer  garment,  or  slobbering  her  gown 
without  it.  There  was  another  celebrated  piece,  enacted  some 
years  since,  upon  the  subject  of  Queen  Caroline,  where  our  late 
adored  sovereign,  George,  was  made  to  play  a most  despicable 
part ; and  where  Signor  Bergami  fought  a duel  with  Lord  Lon- 
donderr3^  In  the  last  act  of  this  pla}’,  the  House  of  Lords  was 
represented,  and  Sir  Brougham  made  an  eloquent  speech  in  the 
Queen’s  favor.  Presently"  the  shouts  of  the  mob  were  heard 
without ; from  shouting  the}’  proceeded  to  pelting  ; and  paste- 
board-brickbats and  cabbages  came  flying  among  the  repre- 
sentatives of  our  hereditary  legislature.  At  this  unpleasant 
juncture.  Si?'  Hardinge^  the  Secretary-at-War,  rises  and  calls  in 
the  military  ; the  act  ends  in  a general  row,  and  the  ignominious 
fall  of  Lord  Liverpool,  laid  low  by  a brickbat  from  the  mob  ! 

The  description  of  these  scenes  is,  of  course,  quite  incapable 
of  conveying  any  notion  of  their  general  effect.  You  must 
have  the  solemnity  of  the  actors,  as  they  Meess  and  Milor  one 
another,  and  the  perfect  gravity  and  good  faith  with  which  the 
audience  listen  to  them.  Our  stage  Frenchman  is  the  old 
Marquis,  with  sword,  and  pigtail,  and  spangled  court  coat. 
The  Englishman  of  the  French  theatre  has,  invariably,  a red 
wig,  and  almost  always  leather  gaiters,  and  a long  white  upper 
Benjamin  : he  remains  as  he  was  represented  in  the  old  carica- 
tures after  the  peace,  when  Vernet  designed  him. 

And  to  conclude  this  catalogue  of  blunders  : in  the  famous 
piece  of  the  “ Naufrage  de  la  Meduse,”  the  first  act  is  laid  on 
board  an  English  ship-of-war,  all  the  officers  of  which  appeared 
in  light  blue  or  gi-een  coats  (the  lamp-light  prevented  our  dis- 
tinguishing the  color  accurately),  and  top-boots  ! 

Let  us  not  attempt  to  deaden  the  force  of  this  tremendous 
blow  by  any  more  remarks.  The  force  of  blundering  can  go  no 
further.  Would  a Chinese  playwright  or  painter  have  stranger 
notions  about  the  barbarians  than  our  neighbors,  who  are  sepa- 
rated from  us  but  by  two  hours  of  salt  water  ? 


MEDITATIONS  AT  VERSAILLES. 


The  palace  of  Versailles  has  been  turned  into  a bricabrac 
shop  of  late  years,  and  its  time-honored  walls  have  been  cov- 
ered with  many  thousand  }mrds  of  the  worst  pictures  that  eye 
ever  looked  on.  I don’t  know  how  many  leagues  of  battles 
and  sieges  the  unhapp}"  visitor  is  now  obliged  to  march  through, 
amidst  a crowd  of  chattering  Paris  cockne3"S,  who  are  never 
tired  of  looking  at  tlie  glories  of  the  Grenadier  Fran^ais  ; to 
the  chronicling  of  whose  deeds  this  old  palace  of  the  old  kings  is 
now  altogether  devoted.  A whizzing,  screaming  steam-engine 
rushes  hither  from  Paris,  bringing  shoals  of  hadauds  in  its  wake. 
The  old  coucous  are  all  gone,  and  their  place  knows  them  no 
longer.  Smooth  asphaltum  terraces,  tawvhy  lamps,  and  great 
hideous  Egj^ptian  obelisks,  have  frightened  them  away  from 
the  pleasant  station  they  used  to  occiip}'  under  the  trees  of  the 
Champs  Elysees  ; and  though  the  old  coucous  were  just  the 
most  uncomfortable  Amhicles  that  human  ingenuit}^  ever  con- 
structed, one  can’t  help  looking  back  to  the  da}^s  of  their  exist- 
ence with  a tender  regret ; for  there  was  pleasure  then  in  the  little 
trip  of  three  leagues : and  who  ever  had  pleasure  in  a railway 
journey  ? Does  an}’  reader  of  this  venture  to  say  that,  on  such 
a voyage,  he  e^mr  dared  to  be  pleasant?  Do  the  most  hardened 
stokers  joke  with  one  another?  I don’t  believe  it.  Look  into 
every  single  car  of  the  train,  and  you  will  see  that  every  single 
face  is  solemn.  They  take  their  seats  gra^mly,  and  are  silent, 
for  the  most  part,  during  the  journey ; they  dare  not  look  out 
of  window,  for  fear  of  being  blinded  by  the  smoke  that  comes 
whizzing  by,  or  of  losing  their  heads  in  one  of  the  windows  of 
the  down  train  ; they  ride  for  miles  in  utter  damp  and  darkness  : 
through  awful  pipes  of  brick,  that  have  been  run  pitilessly 


MEDITATIONS  AT  VERSAILLES. 


277 


through  the  bowels  of  gentle  mother  earth,  the  cast-iron 
Frankenstein  of  an  engine  gallops  on,  puffing  and  screaming. 
Does  an}'  man  pretend  to  say  that  he  enjoys  the  journey  ? — he 
might  as  well  say  that  he  enjoyed  having  his  hair  cut ; he  bears 
it,  but  that  is  all : he  will  not  allow  the  world  to  laugh  at  him, 
for  any  exhibition  of  slavish  fear ; and  pretends,  therefore,  to 
be  at  his  ease ; but  he  is  afraid  : nay,  ought  to  be,  under  the 
circumstances.  I am  sure  Hannibal  or  Napoleon  would,  were 
they  locked  suddenly  into  a car ; there  kept  close  prisoners  for 
a certain  number  of  hours,  and  whirled  along  at  this  dizzy  pace. 
You  can’t  stop,  if  you  would  : — you  may  die,  but  you  can’t 
stop  ; the  engine  may  explode  upon  the  road,  and  up  3^011  go 
along  with  it ; or,  ma}'  be  a bolter  and  take  a fanc}'  to  go  down 
a hill,  or  into  a river : all  this  you  must  bear,  for  the  privilege 
of  travelling  twent\'  miles  an  hour. 

This  little  journe}',  then,  from  Paris  to  Versailles,  that 
used  to  be  so  meriy  of  old,  has  lost  its  pleasures  since  the 
disappearance  of  the  coucous ; and  I would  as  lief  have  for 
companions  the  statues  that  latel}'  took  a coach  from  the  bridge 
opposite  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  and  stepped  out  in  the  court 
of  Versailles,  as  the  most  part  of  the  people  who  now  travel 
on  the  railroad.  The  stone  figures  are  not  a whit  more  cold 
and  silent  than  these  persons,  who  used  to  be,  in  the  old  cou- 
cous^  so  talkative  and  meny.  The  prattling  grisette  and  her 
swain  from  the  PIcole  de  Droit ; the  huge  Alsacian  carabineer, 
grimly  smiling  under  his  sand}'  moustaches  and  glittering  brass 
helmet ; the  jolly  nurse,  in  red  calico,  who  had  been  to  Paris  to 
show  mamma  her  darling  Lolo,  or  Auguste  ; — what  merry  com- 
panions used  one  to  find  squeezed  into  the  craz}'  old  vehicles 
that  formerl}'  performed  the  journey  ! But  the  age  of  horse- 
flesh is  gone  — that  of  engineers,  economists,  and  calculators 
has  succeeded  ; and  the  pleasure  of  coucoudom  is  extinguished 
for  ever.  Wly  not  mourn  over  it,  as  Mr.  Burke  did  over  his 
cheap  defence  of  nations  and  unbought  grace  of  life  ; that  age 
of  chivalry,  which  he  lamented,  apropos  of  a trip  to  Versailles, 
some  half  a century  back? 

Without  stopping  to  discuss  (as  might  be  done,  in  rather  a 
neat  and  successful  manner)  whether  the  age  of  chivalry  was 
cheap  or  dear,  and  whether,  in  the  time  of  the  unbought  grace 
of  life,  there  was  not  more  bribery,  robber}-,  villainy,  tyranny, 
and  corruption,  than  exists  even  in  our  own  happy  days,  — let 
us  make  a few  moral  and  historical  remarks  upon  the  town  of 
Versailles  ; where,  between  railroad  and  coucou,  we  are  surely 
arrived  by  this  time. 


278 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


The  town  is,  certainly,  the  most  moral  of  towns.  You  pass 
from  the  railroad  station  through  a long,  lonely  suburb,  with 
dusty  rows  of  stunted  trees  on  either  side,  and  some  few  mis- 
erable beggars,  idle  boys,  and  ragged  old  women  under  them. 
Behind  the  trees  are  gaunt,  mouldy  houses ; palaces  once, 
where  (in  the  da}^s  of  the  unbought  grace  of  life)  the  cheap 
defence  of  nations  gambled,  ogled,  swindled,  intrigued  ; whence', 
high-born  duchesses  used  to  issue,  in  old  times,  to  act  as  cham- 
bermaids to  lovel}^  Du  Barri ; and  mighty  princes  rolled  awa}’, 
in  gilt  caroches,  hot  for  the  honor  of  lighting  his  Majesty  to 
bed,  or  of  presenting  his  stockings  when  he  rose,  or  of  hold- 
ing his  napkin  when  he  dined.  Tailors,  chandlers,  tinmen, 
wretched  hucksters,  and  greengrocers,  are  now  established  in 
the  mansions  of  the  old  peers  ; small  children  are  ^^elling  at 
the  doors,  with  mouths  besmeared  with  bread  and  treacle ; 
damp  rags  are  hanging  out  of  every  one  of  the  windows,  steam- 
ing in  the  sun  ; 03’ster-shells,  cabbage-stalks,  broken  crockeiy, 
old  papers,  lie  basking  in  the  same  cheerful  light.  A solitary 
water-cart  goes  Jingling  down  the  wide  pavement,  and  spirts  a 
feeble  refreshment  over  the  dusty,  thirsty  stones. 

After  pacing  for  some  time  through  such  dismal  streets,  we 
dehoucher  on  the  grande  place;  and  before  us  lies  the  palace 
dedicated  to  all  the  glories  of  France.  In  the  midst  of  the  great 
lonely  plain  this  famous  residence  of  King  Louis  looks  low  and 
mean. — Honored  pile!  Time  was  when  tall  musketeers  and 
gilded  body-guards  allowed  none  to  pass  the  gate.  Fifty  years 
ago,  ten  thousand  drunken  wojnen  from  Paris  broke  through 
the  charm  ; and  now  a tattered  commissioner  will  conduct  }"ou 
through  it  for  a penny,  and  lead  you  up  to  the  sacred  entrance 
of  the  palace. 

We  will  not  examine  all  the  glories  of  France,  as  here  they 
are  portra3"ed  in  pictures  and  marble : catalogues  are  written 
about  these  miles  of  canvas,  representing  all  the  revolutionaiy 
battles,  from  Vahnj^  to  Waterloo,  — all  the  triumphs  of  Louis 
XIV. — all  the  mistresses  of  his  successor  — and  all  the  great 
men  who  have  flourished  since  the  French  empire  began.  Mili- 
taiy  heroes  are  most  of  these — flerce  constables  in  shining  steel, 
marshals  in  voluminous  wigs,  and  brave  grenadiers  in  bearskin 
caps  ; some  dozens  of  whom  gained  crowns,  principalities,  duke- 
doms ; some  hundreds,  plunder  and  epaulets  ; some  millions, 
death  in  African  sands,  or  in  ic}^  Russian  plains,  under  the 
guidance,  and  for  the  good,  of  that  arch-hero,  Napoleon.  By 
far  the  greater  part  of  “ all  the  glories  ” of  France,  (as  of  most 
other  countries)  is  made  up  of  these  military  men : and  a flne 


MEDITATIONS  AT  VERSAILLES. 


279 


satire  it  is  on  the  cowardice  of  mankind,  that  the}^  i)a}'  such  an 
extraordinary  homage  to  tlie  virtue  called  courage ; filling  their 
history-books  with  tales  about  it,  and  nothing  but  it. 

Let  them  disguise  the  place,  however,  as  they  will,  and  plas- 
ter the  walls  witli  bad  pictures  as  the}’  please,  it  will  be  hard  to 
think  of  an}’  family  but  one,  as  one  travei-ses  this  vast  gloomy 
edifice.  It  has  not  been  humbled  to  the  ground,  as  a certain 
palace  of  Babel  was  of  yore  ; but  it  is  a monument  of  fallen  pride, 
not  less  awful,  and  would  afford  matter  for  a whole  library  of 
sermons.  The  cheap  defence  of  nations  expended  a thousand 
millions  in  the  erection  of  this  magnificent  dwelling-place. 
Armies  were  employed,  in  the  intervals  of  their  warlike  labors, 
to  level  hills,  or  pile  them  up  ; to  turn  rivers,  and  to  build  aque- 
ducts, and  transplant  woods,  and  co?istruct  smooth  terraces,  and 
long  canals.  A vast  garden  grew  up  in  a wilderness,  and  a stu- 
pendous palace  in  the  garden,  and  a stately  city  round  the  pal- 
ace : the  city  was  peopled  with  parasites,  who  daily  came  to  do 
worship  before  the  -creator  of  these  wonders  — the  Great  King. 
“ Dieu  seul  est  grand,”  said  courtly  Massillon  ; but  next  to 
him,  as  the  prelate  thought,  was  certainly  Louis,  his  vicegerent 
here  upon  earth  — God’s  lieutenant-governor  of  the  world,  — 
before  whom  courtiers  used  to  fall  on  their  knees,  and  shade 
their  eyes,  as  if  the  light  of  his  countenance,  like  the  sun,  which 
shone  supreme  in  heaven,  the  type  of  him,  was  too  dazzling  to 
bear. 

Did  ever  the  sun  shine  upon  such  a king  before,  in  such  a 
palace?  — or,  rather,  did  such  a king  ever  shine  upon  the  sun? 
When  Majesty  came  out  of  his  chamber,  in  the  midst  of  his  su- 
perhuman splendors,  viz.  in  his  cinnamon-colored  coat,  embroid- 
ered with  diamonds  ; his  pyramid  of  a wig ; * his  red-heeled 
shoes,  that  lifted  him  four  inches  from  the  ground,  ‘‘that  he 
scarcely  seemed  to  touch  ; ” when  he  came  out,  blazing  upon  the 
dukes  and  duchesses  that  waited  his  rising,  — what  could  the 
hitter  do,  but  cover  their  eyes,  and  wink,  and  tremble?  And 
did  he  not  himself  believe,  as  he  stood  there,  on  his  high  heels, 
under  his  ambrosial  periwig,  that  there  was  something  in  him 
more  than  man  — something  above  Fate? 

This,  doubtless,  was  he  fain  to  believe  ; and  if,  on  very  fine 
days,  from  his  terrace  before  his  gloomy  palace  of  Saint  Ger- 
mains, he  could  catch  a glimpse,  in  the  distance,  of  a certain 
white  spire  of  St.  Denis,  where  his  race  lay  buried,  he  would  say 
to  his  courtiers,  with  a sublime  condescension,  “Gentlemen, 

* It  is  fine  to  think  that,  in  the  days  of  his  youth,  his  Majesty  Louis 
XIV.  used  to  powder  his  wig  with  gold-dust. 


280 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


3'ou  must  remember  that  I,  too,  am  mortal.  ” Surelj"  the  lords 
ill  waiting  could  hardly  think  him  serious,  and  vowed  that  his 
Majest}"  alwa3’S  loved  a joke.  However,  mortal  or  not,  the  sight 
of  that  sharp  spire  wounded  his  Majesty’s  eyes  ; and  is  said,  b}" 
the  legend,  to  have  caused  the  building  of  the  palace  of  Babel- 
Versailles. 

In  the  3^ear  1681,  then,  the  great  king,  with  bag  and  bag- 
gage,— with  guards,  cooks,  chamberlains,  mistresses,  Jesuits, 
gentlemen,  lacke^^s,  Fenelons,  Molieres,  Lauzuns,  Bossuets, 
Villars,  Villero3^s,  Louvois,  Colberts, — transported  himself  to 
his  new  palace  : the  old  one  being  left  for  James  of  England  and 
Jaquette  his  wife,  when  their  time  should  come.  And  when  the 
time  did  come,  and  James  sought  his  brother’s  kingdom,  it  is  on 
record  that  Louis  hastened  to  receive  and  console  him,  and  prom* 
ised  to  restore,  incontinentl3",  those  islands  from  which  the  ca* 
naille  had  turned  him.  Between  brothers  such  a gift  was  a trifle  •, 
and  the  courtiers  said  to  one  another  reverently  : ^ “ The  Lord 
said  unto  my  Lord,  Sit  thou  on  m3"  right  hand,  until  I make 
thine  enemies  th}"  footstool.”  There  was  no  blasphem3^  in  the 
speech : on  the  contraiy,  it  was  gravely  said,  b3"  a faithful  be- 
lieving man,  who  thought  it  no  shame  to  the  latter,  to  compare 
his  Majesty  with  God  Almight3\  Indeed,  the  books  of  the  time 
will  give  one  a strong  idea  how  general  was  this  Louis-worship. 
I have  just  been  looking  at  one,  which  was  written  by  an  hon- 
est Jesuit  and  Protege  of  Pere  la  Chaise,  who  dedicates  a book 
of  medals  to  the  august  Infants  of  France,  which  does,  indeed, 
go  almost  as  far  in  print.  He  calls  our  famous  monarch  ‘‘  Louis 
le  Grand  : — 1,  I’invincible  ; 2,  le  sage  ; 3,  le  conquerant ; 4,  la 
merveille  de  son  sikfle  ; 5,  la  terreurde  ses  ennemis  ; 6,  I’amour 
de  ses  peuples  ; 7,  I’arbitre  de  la  paix  et  de  la  guerre ; 8,  I’ad- 
miration  de  I’univers  ; 9,  et  digne  d’en  etre  le  maitre : 10,  le 
mod^e  d’un  heros  acheve ; 11,  digne  de  I’immortalite,  et  de  la 
veneration  de  tons  les  siecles  ! ” 

A pretty  Jesuit  declaration,  truly,  and  a good  honest  judg- 
ment upon  the  great  king!  In  thirt3"  years  more  — 1.  The 
invincible  had  been  beaten  a vast  number  of  times.  2.  The  sage 
was  the  puppet  of  an  artful  old  woman,  who  was  the  puppet  of 
more  artful  priests.  3.  The  conqueror  had  quite  forgotten  his 
early  knack  of  conquering.  5.  The  terror  of  his  enemies  (for  4, 
the  marvel  of  his  age,  we  pretermit,  it  being  a loose  term,  that 
may  apply  to  any  person  or  thing)  was  now  terrifled  b3"  his 

* I think  it  is  in  the  amusing  “ Memoirs  of  Madame  de  Crequi’’  (a  for- 
gery, but  a work  remarkable  for  its  learning  and  accuracy)  that  the  above 
anecdote  is  related. 


MEDITATIONS  AT  VERSAILLES. 


28'* 


enemies  in  turn.  G.  The  love  of  his  people  was  as  heartily  de- 
tested by  them  as  scarcelj^  aii^^  other  monarch,  not  even  his  great- 
grandson,  has  been,  before  or  since.  7.  The  arbiter  of  peace  and 
war  was  fain  to  send  superb  ambassadors  to  kick  their  heels  in 
Dutch  shopkeepers’  ante-chambers.  8,  is  again  a general  term. 
9.  The  man  fit  to  be  master  of  the  universe,  was  scarcely  mas- 
ter of  his  own  kingdom.  10.  The  finished  hero  was  all  but 
finished,  in  a veiy  commonplace  and  vulgar  way.  And  II. 
The  man  worth}^  of  immortalitj^  was  just  at  the  point  of  death, 
without  a friend  to  soothe  or  deplore  him  ; only  withered  old 
Maintenon  to  utter  pra3’ers  at  his  bedside,  and  croaking  Jesuits 
to  prepare  him,^  with  heaven  knows  what  wretched  tricks  and 
mummeries,  for  his  appearance  in  that  Great  Republic  that  lies 
on  the  other  side  of  the  grave.  In  the  course  of  his  fourscore 
splendid  miserable  }'ears,  he  never  had  but  one  friend,  and  he 
ruined  and  left  her.  Poor  La  Valliere,  what  a sad  tale  is  3’ours  ! 
“ Look  at  this  Galerie  des  G laces,”  cries  Monsieur  Vatout, 
staggering  with  surprise  at  the  appearance  of  the  room,  two 
hundred  and  forty-two  feet  long,  and  forty  high.  “ Here  it  was 
that  Louis  displa3^ed  all  the  grandeur  of  ro3mlty  ; and  such  was 
the  splendor  of  his  court,  and  the  luxuiy  of  the  times,  that  this 
Immense  room  could  hardl3^  contain  the  crowd  of  courtiers  that 
pressed  around  the  monarch.”  Wonderful!  wonderful!  Eight 
thousand  four  hundred  and  sixty  square  feet  of  courtiers  ! Give 
a square  3"ard  to  each,  and  you  have  a matter  of  three  thousand 
3f  them.  Think  of  three  thousand  courtiers  per  day,  and  all 
the  chopping  and  changing  of  them  for  near  forty  years  : some 
[)f  them  dying,  some  getting  their  wishes,  and  retiiing  to  their 
provinces  to  enj 03^  their  plunder;  some  disgraced,  and  going 
home  to  pine  awa3"  out  of  the  light  of  the  sun  ; j*  new  ones  per- 
petuall3^  arriving,  — pushing,  squeezing,  for  their  place,  in  the 
crowded  Galerie  des  Glaces.  A quarter  of  a million  of  noble 
countenances,  at  the  very  least,  must  those  glasses  have  re- 
flected. Rouge,  diamonds,  ribbons,  patches,  upon  the  faces  of 
smiling  ladies  : towering  periwigs,  sleek  shaven  crowns,  tufted 
moustaches,  scars,  and  grizzled  whiskers,  worn  b3'  ministers, 
priests,  dandies,  and  grim  old  commanders.  — So  manv  faces, 
D ye  gods  ! and  eveiy  one  of  them  lies  ! So  many  tongues, 
vowing  devotion  and  respectful  love  to  the  great  king  in  his 
six-inch  wig;  and  only  poor  La  Valliere’s  amongst  them  all 

* They  made  a Jesuit  of  him  on  his  death-hed. 

t Saint  Simon’s  account  of  Lauzun,  in  disgrace,  is  admirably  fac.etious 
ind  pathetic  ; Lauzun’s  regrets  are  as  monstrous  as  those  of  Raleigh  wlien 
deprived  of  the  sitjht  of  Ids  adorable  Oueen  and  Mistress,  Elizabetii. 


282  THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 

which  had  a word  of  triitn  for  the  dull  ears  of  Louis  of 
Bouruon. 

Quand  j’aurai  de  la  peine  aux  Carmelites,”  says  unhappy 
Louise,  about  to  retire  from  these  magnificent  courtiers  and 
their  grand  Galerie  des  Glaces,  “ je  me  souviendrai  de  ce  que 
ces  gens  la  m’ont  fait  souffrir  ! ” — A troop  of  Bossuets  inveigh- 
ing against  the  vanities  of  courts  could  not  preach  such  an 
affecting  sermon.  What  3^ars  of  anguish  and  wrong  had  the 
poor  thing  suffered,  before  these  sad  words  came  from  her 
gentle  lips  ! How  these  courtiers  have  bowed  and  flattered, 
kissed  the  ground  on  which  she  trod,  fought  to  have  the  honor 
of  riding  by  her  carriage,  written  sonnets,  and  called  her  god- 
dess ; \yho,  in  the  days  of  her  prosperity,  was  kind  and  benefi- 
cent, gentle  and  compassionate  to  all;  then  (on  a certain  day, 
when  it  is  wliispered  that  his  Majesty  hath  cast  the  ej^es  of  his 
gracious  affection  upon  another)  behold  three  thousand  cour- 
tiers are  at  the  feet  of  the  new  divinity.  — “ O divine  Athenais  ! 
what  blockheads  have  we  been  to  worship  any  but  }’ou.  — That 
a goddess  ? — a prett}^  goddess  forsooth  ; — a witch,  rather,  who, 
for  a while,  kept  our  gracious  monarch  blind!  Look  at  her: 
the  woman  limi)s  as  she  walks ; and,  by  sacred  Venus,  her 
mouth  stretches  almost  to  her  diamond  ear-rings?”*  The 
same  tale  may  be  told  of  many  more  deserted  mistresses  ; and 
fair  Athenais  de  JMontespan  was  to  hear  it  of  herself  one  da}\ 
IMeantime,  while  La  Vallicre’s  heart  is  l)reaking,  the  model  of 
a linished  hero  is  yawning;  as,  on  such  paltry  occasions,  a 
finished  hero  should.  Let  lier  heart  break  : a plague  upon  hei 
tears  and  rei)entance  ; what  right  has  she  to  re[)cnt?  Away 
with  her  to  her  convent.  She  goes,  and  the  finished  hero  never 
sheds  a tear.  What  a noble  pitch  of  stoicism  to  have  reached  ! 
Onr  Louis  was  so  great,  that  the  little  woes  of  mean  people 
were  beyond  him  : his  friends  died,  his  mistresses  left  him  ; his 
children,  one  by  one,  were  cut  off  before  his  eyes,  and  great 
Louis  is  not  moved  in  the  slightest  degree  1 As  how,  indeed, 
should  a god  be  moved  ? 

I have  ol’ten  liked  to  think  about  this  strange  character  in 
the  world,  who  moved  in  it,  bearing  about  a full  belief  in  his 
own  infallibility  ; teaching  his  generals  the  art  of  war,  his  min- 
isters the  science  of  government,  his  wits  taste,  his  courtiers 
dress  ; ordering  deserts  to  become  gardens,  turning  villages  into 
palaces  at  a breath  ; and  indeed  the  august  figure  of  the  man, 

* A pair  of  diamond  ear-rings,  given  by  tlie  King  to  La  Valliere,  caused 
much'  scandal  ; and  some  lampoons  are  extant,  which  impugn  the  taste  of 
Louis  XIV.  for  loving  a lady  with  such  an  enormous  mouth. 


]\:ai)ame  de  la  valliere. 


MEDITATIONS  AT  VERSAILLES. 


283 


as  he  towers  upon  Ills  throne,  cannot  fixil  to  inspire  one  with 
respect  and  awe  : — how  grand  those  (lowing  locks  appear  ; how 
awful  that  sceptre  ; how  magniticent  those  flowing  robes  ! In 
Louis,  surel}’,  if  in  aii3'  one,  the  majesty  of  kingbood  is  repre- 
sented. 

But  a king  is  not  eveiy  inch  a king,  for  all  the  poet  may 
sa}^ ; and  it  is  curious  to  sec  how  much  precise  majesty  there 
is  in  that  majestic  figure  of  Ludovicus  Rex.  In  the  Frontis- 
piece, we  have  endeavored  to  make  the  exact  calculation.  The 
idea  of  kingh’  dignity  is  equally  strong  in  the  two  outer  figures  ; 
and  yon  see,  at  once,  that  majesty  is  made  out  of  the  wig,  the 
high-heeled  shoes,  and  cloak,  all  tleurs-de-lis  bespangled.  As 
for  the  little  lean,  shrivelled,  paunchv  old  man,  of  five  feet  two, 
in  a jacket  and  breeches,  there  is  no  majesty  in  him  at  aiyy 
rate  ; and  yet  he  has  just  stepped  out  of  that  very  suit  of 
clothes.  Put  the  wig  and  shoes  on  him,  and  he  is  six  feet 
high  ; — the  other  fripperies,  and  he  stands  liefore  von  majestic, 
imperial,  and  heroic!  Thus  do  liarbers  imd  co])l)lers  make  the 
gods  that  we  worship:  fordo  we  not  all  worship  him?  Yes; 
though  we  all  know  him  to  be  stupid,  heartless,  short,  of 
doubtful  iiersonal  courage,  worship  and  admire  him  we  must ; 
and  have  set  iqi,  in  our  hearts,  a grand  image  of  him,  endowed 
with  wit,  magnanimity,  valor,  and  enormous  heroical  stature. 

And  what  magnanimous  acts  are  attributed  to  him  ! or, 
rather,  how  differentty  do  we  view  the  actions  of  heroes  and 
common  men,  and  find  that  the  same  thing  shall  be  a wonder- 
ful virtue  in  the  former,  which,  in  the  latter,  is  onl^’  an  ordinaiy 
act  of  duty.  Look  at  yonder  window  of  the  king’s  chamber  ; — 
one  morning  a royal  cane  was  seen  whirling  out  of  it,  and 
plumped  among  the  courtiers  and  guard  of  honor  below.  King 
Louis  had  absolutelv,  and  with  his  own  hand,  flung  his  own 
cane  out  of  the  window,  “ because,”  said  he,  I won’t  demean 
myself  by  striking  a gentleman  ! ” O miracle  of  magnanimity  ! 
Lauzun  was  not  caned,  because  he  besought  majesty  to  keep 
his  promise,  — only  imprisoned  for  ten  years  in  Pignerol,  along 
wuth  banished  Fouquet ; — and  a pretty  story  is  Fouquet’s  too. 

Out  of  the  window  the  king’s  august  head  was  one  day 
thrust,  when  old  Conde  was  painfully  toiling  up  the  steps  of 
the  court  below.  “Don’t  hurry  yourself,  m3’ cousin,”  cries 
Magnanimity;  “ one  wdio  has  to  carry  so  man3’ laurels  cannot 
walk  fast.”  At  which  all  the  courtiers,  lackevs,  mistresses, 
chamberlains,  Jesuits,  and  scullions,  clasp  their  hands  and 
burst  into  tears.  Men  are  affected  by  the  tale  to  this  very  dav. 
For  a century  and  three-ouarters.  have  not  all  the  books  that 


284 


THE  PARTS  STRETCH  BOOK. 


speak  of  Versailles,  or  Louis  Quatorze, . told  the  storj?-^ 
‘ • Don’t  hurry  }'Ourself,  my  cousin  ! ” O admirable  king  and 
Christian ! what  a pitch  of  condescension  is  here,  that  the 
greatest  king  of  all  tlie  world  should  go  for  to  sa}^  anything  so 
kind,  and  reall}^  tell  a tottering  old  gentleman,  worn  out  with 
gout,  age,  and  wounds,  not  to  walk  too  fast ! 

What  a proper  fund  of  slavishness  is  there  in  the  compo- 
sition of  mankind,  that  histories  like  these  should  be  found  to 
interest  and  awe  them.  Till  the  world’s  end,  most  likel3%  this 
story  will  have  its  place  in  the  histoiy-books  ; and  unborn  gen- 
erations will  read  it,  and  tenderly  be  moved  b}^  it.  I am  sure 
that  Magnanimit}’  went  to  bed  that  night,  pleased  and  happy, 
intimately’  convinced  that  he  had  done  an  action  of  sublime 
virtue,  and  had  eas}'^  slumbers  and  sweet  dreams, — especially 
if  he  had  taken  a light  supper,  and  not  too  vehemently  attacked 
his  en  ccis  de  nuit. 

That  famous  adventure,  in  which  the  en  cas  de  nuit  was 
brought  into  use,  for  the  sake  of  one  Poquelin  alias  Mo- 
liere  ; — how  often  has  it  been  described  and  admired?  This 
Poquelin,  though  king’s  valet-de-chambre,  was  bj’  profession 
a vagrant ; and  as  such,  looked  coldl}’  on  bj’  the  great  lords 
of  the  palace,  who  refused  to  eat  with  him.  Majesty  hearing 
of  this,  ordered  his  en  cas  de  nuit  to  be  placed  on  the  table, 
and  positively’  cut  off  a wing  with  his  own  knife  and  fork  for 
Poquelin’s  use.  O thrice  lia[)[)}’  Jean  Baptiste  ! The  king  has 
actually  sat  down  with  him  cheek  by’ jowl,  had  the  liver-wing 
of  a fowl,  and  given  Molifre  the  gizzard  ; put  his  imperial  legs 
under  the  same  maliogany’  {sub  iisdein  trahibus).  A man,  after 
such  an  lionor,  can  look  for  little  else  in  this  world  : he  has 
lasted  the  utmost  conceivable  earthly  happiness,  and  has  noth- 
ing to  do  now  but  to  fold  his  arms,  look  up  to  heaven,  and 
sing  Nunc  dimittis”  and  die. 

Do  not  let  us  abuse  poor  old  Louis  on  account  of  this  mon- 
strous pride ; but  only’  la}’  it  to  the  charge  of  the  fools  who 
believed  and  worshipped  it.  If,  honest  man,  he  believed  him- 
self to  be  almost  a god,  it  was  only’  because  thousands  of 
people  had  told  him  so  — people  onl}’  half  liars,  too;  who  did, 
in  the  depths  of  their  slavish  respect,  admire  the  man  almost 
as  much  as  thev  said  the}’  did.  If,  w’hen  he  appeared  in  his 
five-hundred* million  coat,  as  he  is  said  to  have  done,  before 
the  Siamese  ambassadors,  the  courtiers  began  to  shade  their 
eyes  and  long  for  parasols,  as  if  this  Bourbonic  sun  was  too 
hot  for  them  ; indeed,  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  should  believe 
that  there  was  something  dazzling  about  his  person  : lie  had 


MEDITATIONS  AT  VERSAILLES. 


285 


half  a million  of  eager  testimonies  to  this  idea.  Who  was  to 
tell  him  the  truth?  — Only  in  the  last  }’ears  of  his  life  did  trem- 
bling courtiers  dare  whisper  to  him,  after  much  circnmlocntion, 
that  a certain  battle  had  been  fongiit  at  a })lace  called  Blen- 
heim, and  that  Eugene  and  iMai’lborough  had  stopped  his  long 
career  of  triumphs. 

“On  n’est  i)lus  heureux  a notre  age,”  says  the  old  man,  to 
»)ne  of  his  old  generals,  welcoming  Tallard  after  his  defeat; 
ond  he  rewards  liiin  with  honors,  as  if  he  had  come  from  a vic- 
tory. There  is,  if  you  will,  something  magnanimous  in  this 
welcome  to  his  coiuniered  general,  this  stout  protest  against 
Fate.  Disaster  succeeds  disaster;  armies  after  armies  march 
out  to  meet  tiery  Eugene  and  that  dogged,  fatal  Englishman,  and 
(lisapi)ear  in  the  smoke  of  the  enemies’  cannon.  Even  at  Ver- 
sailles yon  may  almost  hear  it  roaring  at  last;  but  when  cour- 
tiers, who  have  forgotten  their  god,  now  talk  of  quitting  this 
grand  temple  of  his,  old  Louis  })lucks  up  heart  and  will  never 
liear  of  surrender.  All  the  gohl  and  silver  at  Versailles  he 
melts,  to  find  bread  for  his  armies  : all  the  jewels  on-  his  five- 
hnndred-million  coat  he  pawns  re  sol  u tel}' ; and,  bidding  Villars 
go  and  make  the  last  struggle  but  one,  promises,  if  his  general 
is  defeated,  to  place  himself  at  the  head  of  his  nobles,  and  die 
King  of  F ranee.  Indeed,  after  a man,  for  sixty  }'ears,  has  been 
[>erforming  the  part  of  a hero,  some  of  the  real  heroic  stuff  must 
have  entered  into  his  composition,  whether  he  would  or  not. 
M^hen  the  great  PRliston  was  enacting  the  part  of  King  George 
the  Fourth,  in  the  play  of  “ The  Coronation,”  at  Drury  Lane, 
the  galleries  applauded  very  loudly  his  suavity  and  majestic  de- 
meanor, at  which  Elliston,  inflamed  by  the  popular  loyalty  (and 
by  some  fermented  liquor  in  which,  it  is  said,  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  indulging),  burst  into  tears,  and  spreading  out  his  arms,  ex- 
claimed : “ Bless  ye,  bless  ye,  my  people  ! ” Don’t  let  us  laugh 
at  his  Ellistonian  majesty,  nor  at  the  people  who  clapped  hands 
and  yelled  “bravo!”  in  praise  of  him.  The  tipsy  old  man- 
ager did  really  feel  that  he  was  a hero  at  that  moment ; and  the 
people,  wild  with  delight  and  attachment  for  a magnificent  coat 
and  breeches,  surely  were  uttering  the  true  sentiments  of  loy- 
alty : which  consists  in  reverencing  these  and  other  articles  of 
costume.  In  this  fifth  act,  then,  of  his  long  roj’al  drama,  old 
Louis  performed  his  part  excellently  ; and  when  the  curtain 
drops  upon  him,  he  lies,  dressed  majesticall}',  in  a becoming 
kingly  attitude,  as  a king  should. 

The  king  his  successor  has  not  left,  at  Versailles,  half  so 
much  occasion  for  moralizing  ; perhaps  the  neighboring  Parc 


286 


THE  PAKIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


aux  Cerfs  would  afford  better  illustrations  of  his  reign.  The 
life  of  his  great  grandsire,  the  Grand  Llama  of  France,  seems  to 
have  frightened  Louis  the  well-beloved  ; who  understood  that 
loneliness  is  one  of  the  necessaiy  conditions  of  divinitv,  and 
being  of  a jovial,  companionable  turn,  aspired  not  beyond 
manhood.  Only  in  the  matter  of  ladies  did  he  surpass  his 
predecessor,  as  Solomon  did  David.  War  he  eschewed,  as  his 
grandfather  bade  him  ; and  his  simple  taste  found  little  in 
this  world  to  enjoy  beyond  the  mulling  of  chocolate  and  the 
flying  of  pancakes.  Look,  here  is  the  room  called  Labora- 
toire  du  Roi,  where,  with  his  own  hands,  he  made  his  misti'Qss’s 
breakfast: — here  is  the  little  door  through  which,  from  her 
apartments  in  the  upper  stoiy,  the  chaste  Du  Barri  came 
stealing  down  to  the  arms  of  the  wear}^  feeble,  gloomy  old 
man.  But  of  women  he  was  tired  long  since,  and  even  pan- 
cake-frying had  palled  upon  him.  What  had  he  to  do,  after 
forty  3'ears  of  reign; — after  having  exhausted  eveiything? 
Every  pleasure  that  Dubois  could  invent  for  his  hot  3’outh,  or 
cunning  Lebel  could  minister  to  his  old  age,  was  flat  and  stale ; 
used  up  to  the  very  dregs  : every  shilling  in  the  national  purse 
had  been  squeezed  out,  b3^  Pompadour  and  Du  Barri  and  such 
brilliant  ministers  of  state.  He  had  found  out  the  vanit3^  of 
pleasure,  as  his  ancestor  had  discovered  the  vanit3^  of  gloiy : 
indeed  it  was  high  time  that  he  should  die.  And  die  he  did  ; 
and  round  his  tomb,  as  round  that  of  his  grandfather  before 
him,  the  starving  people  sang  a dreadful  chorus  of  curses, 
which  were  the  only  epitaphs  for  good  or  for  evil  that  were 
raised  to  his  memory. 

As  for  the  courtiers  — the  knights  and  nobles,  the  unbought 
grace  of  life — the3',  of  course,  forgot  him  in  one  minute  after 
his  death,  as  the  way  is.  When  the  king  dies,  the  officer  ap- 
pointed opens  his  chamber  window,  and  calling  out  into  the 
court  below,  Le  Roi  est  mort^  breaks  his  cane,  takes  another 
and  waves  it,  exclaiming,  Vive  le  Roi!  Straightway  all  the 
lo3^al  nobles  begin  yelling  Vive  le  Roi!  and  the  officer  goes 
round  solemnly  and  sets  yonder  great  clock  in  the  Coiir  de 
Marbre  to  the  hour  of  the  king’s  death.  This  old  Louis  had 
solemnlv  ordained ; but  the  Versailles  clock  was  01113^  set 
twuce  : there  was  no  shouting  of  Vive  le  Roi  when  the  suc- 
cessor of  Louis  XV.  mounted  to  heaven  to  join  his  sainted 
family. 

Strange  stories  of  the  deaths  of  kings  have  always  beeiiA-erv 
recreating  and  profitable  to  us : what  a fine  one  is  that  of  tlie 
death  of  Louis  XV.,  as  Madame  Campan  tells  it.  One  night 


MEDITATIONS  AT  VERSAILLES. 


287 


the  gTiicioiis  monarch  came  back  ill  from  Trianon  ; the  disease 
turned  out  to  be  the  small-pox  ; so  violent  that  ten  people  of 
those  who  had  to  enter  his  chamber  caught  the  infection  and 
died.  The  whole  court  Hies  from  him  ; 011I3"  poor  old  fat  Mes- 
dames  the  King’s  daughters  persist  in  remaining  at  his  bedside, 
and  praying  for  his  soul’s  welfare. 

On  the  10th  May,  1774,  the  whole  court  had  assembled  at 
the  chateau  ; the  CEil  de  Boeuf  was  full.  The  Dauphin  had 
determined  to  depart  as  soon  as  the  king  had  breathed  his  last. 
And  it  was  agreed  b}’  the  people  of  the  stables,  with  those  who 
watched  in  the  kiiig’s  room,  that  a lighted  candle  should  be 
[)laced  in  a window,  and  should  be  extinguished  as  soon  as  he 
had  ceased  to  live.  The  candle  was  put  out.  At  that  signal, 
guards,  pages,  and  squires  mounted  on  horseback,  and  e^■cry- 
thing  was  made  read}'  for  departure.  The  Dauphin  was  with 
the  Dauphiness,  waiting  together  for  the  news  of  the  king’s 
demise.  An  immense  noise^  as  if  of  thunder^  was  heard  in  the 
next  room ; it  was  the  crowd  of  courtiers,  who  were  deserting 
the  dead  king’s  apartment,  in  order  to  pay  their  court  to  the 
new  power  of  Louis  XVI.  Madame  de  Xoailles  entered,  and 
was  the  first  to  salute  the  queen  by  her  title  of  Queen  of  France, 
and  begged  their  Majesties  to  quit  their  apartments,  to  receive 
the  princes  and  great  lords  of  the  court  desirous  to  pay  their 
homage  to  the  new  sovereigns.  Leaning  on  her  husband’s  arm, 
a liandkerchief  to  her  eyes,  in  the  most  touching  attitude,  Marie 
Antoinette  received  these  first  visits.  On  quitting  the  chamber 
where  the  dead  king  lay,  the  Due  de  Villequier  bade  M.  Ander- 
ville,  first  surgeon  of  the  king,  to  open  and  embalm  the  body  : 
it  would  have  been  certain  death  to  the  surgeon.  “ I am  ready, 
sir,”  said  he  ; “ but  whilst  I am  operating,  you  must  hold  the 
head  of  the  corpse  : your  charge  demands  it.”  The  Duke  went 
away  without  a word,  and  the  body  was  neither  opened  nor 
embalmed.  A few  humble  domestics  and  poor  workmen 
watched  by  the  remains,  and  performed  the  last  offices  to  their 
master.  The  surgeons  ordered  spirits  of  wine  to  be  poured 
into  the  coffin. 

They  huddled  the  king’s  body  into  a post-chaise  ; and  in  this 
deplorable  equipage,  with  an  escort  of  about  forty  men,  Louis 
the  well-beloved  was  carried,  in  the  dead  of  night,  from  Ver- 
sailles to  8t.  Denis,  and  then  thrown  into  the  tomb  of  the  kings 
of  France  ! 

If  any  man  is  curious,  and  can  get  permission,  he  may 
mount  to  the  roof  of  the  palace,  and  see  where  Louis  XVI. 
used  royally  to  amuse  himself,  by  gazing  upon  the  doings  of  all 


288 


rilE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK. 


the  townspeople  below  with  a telescope.  Behold  that  balcon3^ 
where,  one  morning,  he,  his  queen,  and  the  little  Dauphin  stood! 
with  Cromwell  Grandison  Lafa3'ette  b3^  their  side,  who  kissed 
her  Majesty’s  hand,  and  protected  her ; and  then,  lovingly  sur- 
rounded by  his  people,  the  king  got  into  a coach  and  came  to 
Paris  : nor  did  his  Majest3^  much  in  coaches  after  that. 

There  is  a portrait  of  the  king,  in  the  upper  galleries, 
clothed  in  red  and  gold,  riding  a fat  horse,  brandishing  a 
sword,  on  which  the  word  “Justice”  is  inscribed,  and  looking 
remarkably  stupid  and  uncomfortable.  You  see  that  the  horse 
will  throw  him  at  the  very  first  fling ; and  as  for  the  sword,  it 
never  was  made  for  such  hands  as  his,  which  were  good  at 
holding  a corkscrew  or  a carving-knife,  but  not  clever  at  the 
management  of  weapons  of  war.  Let  those  pity  him  who  will : 
call  him  saint  and  martyr  if  3"ou  please  ; but  a martyr  to  what 
principle  was  he?  Did  he  frankH  support  either  party  in  his 
kingdom,  or  cheat  and  tamper  with  both?  He  might  have 
escaped  ; but  he  must  have  his  supper : and  so  his  famil3"  was 
butchered  and  his  kingdom  lost,  and  he  had  his  bottle  of  Bur- 
gund3^  in  comfort  at  Varennes.  A single  charge  upon  the  fatal 
10th  of  August,  and  the  monarch3^  might  have  been  his  once 
more  ; but  he  is  so  tender-hearted,  that  he  lets  his  friends  be 
murdered  before  his  e3^es  almost : or,  at  least,  when  he  has 
turned  his  back  upon  his  duty  and  his  kingdom,  and  has  skulked 
for  safet3"  into  the  reporters’  box,  at  the  National  Assembl3". 
There  were  hundreds  of  brave  men  who  died  that  da3%  and  were 
mart3TS,  if  you  will ; poor  neglected  tenth-rate  courtiers,  for 
the  most  part,  who  had  forgotten  old  slights  and  disappoint- 
ments, and  left  their  places  of  safety  to  come  and  die,  if  need 
were,  sharing  in  the  supreme  hour  of  the  monarch3\  Monarcln" 
was  a great  deal  too  humane  to  fight  along  with  these,  and  so 
left  them  to  the  pikes  of  Santerre  and  the  mercy  of  the  men 
of  the  Sections.  But  we  are  wandering  a good  ten  miles  from 
Versailles,  and  from  the  deeds  which  Louis  XVI.  performed 
there. 

He  is  said  to  have  been  such  a smart  Journe3^man  blacksmith, 
that  he  might,  if  Fate  had  not  perversel3^  placed  a crown  on  his 
head,  have  earned  a couple  of  louis  eveiy  week  by  the  making 
of  locks  and  kc3*s.  Those  who  will  ma3^  see  the  workshop 
where  he  emplo3^ed  man3'’  useful  hours  : Madame  Elizabeth  was 
at  pra3’ers  meanwhile  ; the  queen  was  making  pleasant  parties 
with  her  ladies.  Monsieur  the  Count  d’Artois  was  learning  to 
dance  on  the  tight-rope  ; and  Monsieur  de  Provence  was  culti- 
vating V eloquence  du  billet  and  studying  his  favorite  Horace.  It 


MEDITATIONS  AT  VERSAILLES. 


289 


is  said  that  each  member  of  the  august  family  succeeded 
remarkabl}^  well  iii  his  or  her  pursuits  ; big  Monsieur’s  little 
notes  are  still  cited.  At  a minuet  or  sjdlabub,  poor  Antoinette 
was  unrivalled  ; and  Charles,  on  the  tight-rope,  was  so  graceful 
and  so  gentil^  that  Madame  Saqui  might  envy  him.  The  time 
only  was  out  of  joint.  O cursed  spite,  that  ever  such  harmless 
creatuifes  as  these  were  bidden  to  right  it ! 

A walk  to  the  little  Trianon  is  both  pleasing  and  moral : no 
doubt  the  reader  has  seen  the  pretty  fantastical  gardens  which 
environ  it ; the  groves  and  temples  ; the  streams  and  caverns 
(whither,  as  the  guide  tells  j^ou,  during  the  heat  of  summer,  it 
was  the  custom  of  Marie  Antoinette  to  retire,  with  her  favor- 
ite, Madame  de  Lamballe)  : the  lake  and  Swiss  village  are  prett}' 
little  toys,  moreover ; and  the  cicerone  of  the  place  does  not 
fail  to  point  out  the  different  cottages  which  surround  the  i)iece 
of  water,  and  tell  the  names  of  the  royal  masqueraders  who 
inhabited  each.  In  the  long  cottage,  close  upon  the  lake,  dwelt 
the  Seigneur  du  Village,  no  less  a personage  than  Louis  XV.  ; 
Louis  XVI.,  the  Daiq)hiu,  was  the  Bailli ; near  his  cottage  is 
that  of  Monseigneur  the  C^ount  d’Ai-tois,  who  was  the  Miller; 
opposite  lived  the  Prince  de  Coiide,  who  enacted  the  part  of 
Gamekeeper  (or,  indeed,  any  other  role,  for  it  does  not  signify 
much) ; near  him  wms  the  Prince  de  Rohan,  who  w^as  the  Au- 
monier ; and  yonder  is  the  prett}^  little  dairy,  which  was  under 
the  charge  of  the  fair  Marie  Antoinette  herself. 

I forget  whether  Monsieur  the  fat  Count  of  Provence  took 
any  share  of  this  royal  masquerading ; but  look  at  the  names 
of  the  other  six  actors  of  the  coined}',  and  it  will  be  hard  to  find 
any  person  for  whom  Fate  had  such  dreadful  visitations  in  store. 
Fancy  the  party,  in  the  days  of  their  prosperity,  here  gathered 
at  Trianon,  and  seated  under  the  tall  poplars  by  the  lake,  dis- 
coursing familiarly  together : suppose  of  a sudden  some  con 
juring  Cagliostro  of  the  time  is  introduced  among  them,  and 
foretells  to  them  the  woes  that  are  about  to  come.  “ You, 
JMonsieur  rAumonier,  the  descendant  of  a long  line  of  princes, 
the  passionate  admirer  of  that  fair  queen  who  sits  by  your  side, 
shall  be  the  cause  of  her  ruin  and  your  own,*  and  shall  die  in 
disgrace  and  exile.  V^ou,  son  of  the  Condes,  shall  live  long 
enough  to  see  your  royal  race  overthrown,  and  shall  die  by  the 
hands  of  a hangman. f You,  oldest  son  of  Saint  Louis,  shall 
perish  b}^  the  executioner’s  axe  ; that  beautiful  head,  O An- 
toinette, the  same  ruthless  blade  shall  sever.”  “ They  vshall  kill 

* In  the  diamond-necklace  affair. 

t He  was  found  hanging  in  his  own  bedroom. 

19 


290 


THE  PARIS  SKETCH  BOOR. 


me  first,”  says  Lamballe,  at  the  queen’s  side.  “ Yes,  truly,” 
replies  the  soothsayer,  “ for  Fate  prescribes  ruin  for  your  mis- 
tress 3.nd  all  who  love  her.”  * “ And,”  cries  Monsieur  d’ Artois, 

“ do  I not  love  my  sister,  too?  I pray  you  not  to  omit  me  in 
your  prophecies.” 

To  whom  Monsieur  Cagliostro  says,  scornfull}",  “ You  may 
look  forward  to  fifty  }^ears  of  life,  after  most  of  these  are  laid 
in  the  grave.  You  shall  be  a king,  but  not  die  one  ; and  shall 
leave  the  crown  only  ; not  the  worthless  head  that  shall  wear 
it.  Thrice  shall  you  go  into  exile  : 3^011  shall  fl}^  from  the  peo- 
ple, first,  who  would  have  no  more  of  you  and  }^our  race  ; and 
you  shall  return  home  over  half  a million  of  human  corpses, 
that  have  been  made  for  the  sake  of  3^011,  and  of  a t3'rant  as 
great  as  the  greatest  of  3"Our  family.  Again  driven  awa3'',  your 
bitterest  enemy  shall  bring  3"0u  back.  But  the  strong  limbs  of 
France  are  not  to  be  chained  b3^  such  a paltry  3-oke  as  3^011  can 
put  on  her : 3’ou  shall  be  a t3Tant,  but  in  will  onty  ; and  shall 
have  a sceptre,  but  to  see  it  robbed  from  3’our  hand.” 

“ And  pra3".  Sir  Conjurer,  who  shall  be  the  robber?”  asked 
Monsieur  the  Count  d’ Artois. 

This  I cannot  sa3%  for  here  my  dream  ended.  The  fact  is, 
I had  fallen  asleep  on  one  of  the  stone  benches  in  the  Avenue 
de  Paris,  and  at  this  instant  was  awakened  b3^  a whirling  of 
carriages  and  a great  clattering  of  national  guards,  lancers  and 
outriders,  in  red.  His  Majesty  Louis  Philippe  was  going  to 
pa3"  a visit  to  the  palace  ; which  contains  several  pictures  of  his 
own  glorious  actions,  and  which  has  been  dedicated,  b3^  him,  to 
ail  the  glories  of  France. 

* Among  the  many  lovers  tliat  rumor  gave  to  the  queen,  poor  Ferscu 
is  the  most  remarkable.  He  seems  to  liave  entertained  for  her  a high  and 
perfectly  pure  devotion.  He  was  the  chief  agent  in  the  luckless  escape  to 
Varennes ; was  lurking  in  Paris  during  tlie  time  of  lier  captivity  ; and  was 
concerned  in  the  many  fruitless  plots  that  were  made  for  her  rescue. 
Ferscu  lived  to  be  an  old  man,  but  died  a dreadful  and  violent  death.  He 
was  dragged  from  his  carriage  by  the  mob,  iu  Stockholm,  and  murdered 
by  them. 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


TO 


CAPTAIN  SAMUEL  LEWIS, 

OF  THE  PENINSULAR  AND  ORIENTAL  STE4M  NAVIGATION  COMPANY’S 
SERVICE. 

My  dear  Lewis, — After  a voyage,  during  which  %he  cap- 
tain of  the  ship  has  displayed  nncoinmon  courage,  seamanship, 
affabilit}’,  or  other  good  qualities,  grateful  passengers  often 
present  him  with  a token  of  tlieir  esteem,  in  the  sha{^  of  tea- 
pots, tankards,  trays,  <^c.  of  [irecious  metal.  Among  authors, 
however,  bullion  is  a inucli  rarer  commodity  than  paper,  whereof 
1 beg  you  to  accept  a little  in  the  shai)e  of  this  small  volume. 
It  contains  a few  notes  of  a vo3’age  which  3^0111’  skill  and  kind- 
ness rendered  doubly  pleasant ; and  of  wdiich  J <;jiou’t  think 
there  is  any  recollection  more  agreeable  than  that  it  was  the 
occasion  of  making  your  friendship. 

If  the  noble  compan3An  whose  service  3'ou  command  (and 
whose  fleet  alone  makes  them  a third-rate  maritime  power  in 
Europe)  should  appoint  a few  admirals  in  their  navy,  I hope 
to  hear  that  your  flag  is  hoisted  on  board  one  of  the  grandest 
of  their  steamers.  But,  I trust,  even  there  you  will  not  forget 
the  “Iberia,”  and  the  delightful  Mediterranean  cruise  we  had 
in  her  in  the  Autumn  of  1844. 

Most  faithfull3^  3’ours, 

M3'  dear  Lewis, 

W.  M.  THACKERAY. 


London,  December  24, 1845. 


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PREFACE. 


On  the  20th  of  August,  1844,  the  writer  of  this  little  book 

went  to  dine  at  the  Clul),”  quite  unconscious  of  the 

wonderful  events  Avhich  Fate  had  in  store  for  him. 

Mr.  William  was  there,  giving  a farewell  dinner  to  his  friend, 
Mr.  James  (now  Sir  James).  Tliese  two  asked  Mr.  Titmarsh 
to  join  compaii}^  with  them,  and  the  conversation  naturall}'  fell 
upon  the  tour  Mr.  James  was  about  to  take.  The  Peninsular 
and  Oriental  Compaii}'  had  arranged  an  excursion  in  the 
Mediterranean,  by  which,  in  the  space  of  a couple  of  months, 
as  man}'  men  and  cities  were  to  be  seen  as  Uh'sses  surveyed 
and  noted  in  ten  years.  Malta,  Athens,  Smyrna,  Constanti- 
nople, Jerusalem,  Cairo,  were  to  be  visited,  and  everybody  was 
to  be  back  in  London  by  Lord  Mayor’s  Day. 

The  idea  of  beholding  these  famous  places  inflamed  Mr. 
Titmarsh’s  mind  ; and  the  charms  of  such  a journey  w'ere  elo- 
quentl}'  impressed  upon  him  b}'  Mr.  James.  “ Come,”  said 
that  kind  and  hospitable  gentleman,  “ and  make  one  of  my 
family  party ; in  all  your  life  you  will  never  probaljly  have  a 
chance  again  to  see  so  much  in  so  short  a time.  Consider — ■ 
it  is  as  easy  as  a journey  to  Paris  or  to  Baden.”  Mr.  Titmarsh 
considered  all  these  things  ; but  also  the  difficulties  of  the  situ- 
ation : he  had  but  six-and-tliirty  hours  to  get  ready  for  so 
portentous  a journe}'  — he  had  engagements  at  home  — finally, 
could  he  afford  it?  In  spite  of  these  objections,  however,  with 
eveiy  glass  of  claret  the  enthusiasm  somehow  rose,  and  the 
difficulties  vanished. 


296 


PREFACE. 


But  when  Mr.  James,  to  crown  all,  said  he  had  no  doubt 
that  his  friends,  the  Directors  of  the  Peninsular  and  Oriental 
Companj^,  would  make  Mr.  Titmarsh  the  present  of  a berth  for 
the  vo}^age,  all  objections  ceased  on  his  part : to  break  his  out- 
standing engagements  — to  write  letters  to  his  amazed  family, 
stating  that  they  were  not  to  expect  him  at  dinner  on  Saturday 
fortnight,  as  he  would  be  at  Jerusalem  on  that  day  — to  pur- 
chase eighteen  shirts  and  lay  in  a sea  stock  of  Russia  ducks,  — 
was  the  work  of  four-and-twenty  hours  ; and  on  the  22nd  of 
August,  the  “Lady  Mary  Wood”  was  sailing  from  South- 
ampton with  the  “subject  of  the  present  memoir,”  quite  as- 
tonished to  find  himself  one  of  the  passengers  on  board. 

These  important  statements  are  made  partly  to  convince 
some  incredulous  friends  — who  insist  still  that  the  writer  never 
went  abroad  at  all,  and  wrote  the  following  pages,  out  of  pure 
fancy,  in  retirement  at  Putney  ; but  mainly,  to  give  him  an 
opportunit}"  of  thanking  the  Directors  of  the  Company'  in  ques- 
tion for  a delightful  excursion. 

It  was  one  so  eas}’,  so  charming,  and  I think  profitable  — 
it  leaves  such  a store  of  pleasant  recollections  for  after  da\'s  — 
and  creates  so  many  new  sources  of  interest  (a  newspaper  letter 
from  Beju’out,  or  Malta,  or  Algiers,  has  twice  the  interest  now 
that  it  had  formerly),  — that  I can’t  but  recommend  all  persons 
who  have  time  and  means  to  make  a similar  journey  — vacation 
idlers  to  extend  their  travels  and  pursue  it : above  all,  young 
well-educated  men  entering  life,  to  take  this  course,  we  will 
say,  after  that  at  college ; and,  having  their  book-learning 
fresh  in  their  minds,  see  the  living  people  and  their  cities,  and 
the  actual  aspect  of  Nature,  along  the  famous  shores  of  the 
Mediterranean. 


A JOURNEY  FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


CHAPTER  I. 

VIGO. 

The  snn  brought  all  the  sick  people  out  of  their  berths  this 
morning,  and  the  indescribable  moans  and  noises  which  had 
been  issuing  from  behind  the  fine  painted  doors  on  each  side 
of  the  cabin  happil}’  ceased.  Long  before  sunrise,  I had  the 
good  fortune  to  discover  that  it  was  no  longer  necessaiy  to 
maintain  the  horizontal  posture,  and,  the  very  instant  this 
truth  was  apparent,  came  on  deck,  at  two  o’clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, to  see  a noble  full  moon  sinking  westward,  and  millions  of 
the  most  brilliant  stars  shining  overhead.  The  night  w'as  so 
serenel}'  pure,  that  you  saw  them  in  magnificent  airy  perspec- 
tive ; the  blue  sky  around  and  over  them,  and  other  more  dis- 
tant orbs  sparkling  above,  till  they  glittered  away  faintly  into 
the  immeasurable  distance.  The  ship  went  rolling  over  a 
heav}",  sweltering,  calm  sea.  The  breeze  was  a warm  and  soft 
one  ; quite  different  to  the  rigid  air  we  had  left  behind  us,  two 
days  since,  off  the  Isle  of  Wight.  The  bell  kept  tolling  its  half- 
hours,  and  the  mate  explained  the  mystery  of  watch  and  dog- 
watch. 

The  sight  of  that  noble  scene  cured  all  the  woes  and  discom- 
fitures of  sea-sickness  at  once,  and  if  there  were  any  need  to 
communicate  such  secrets  to  the  public,  one  might  tell  of  much 
more  good  that  the  pleasant  morning-watch  effected  ; but  there 
are  a set  of  emotions  about  which  a man  had  best  be  slw  of 
talking  lightly,  — and  the  feelings  excited  b}^  contemplating 
this  vast,  magnificent,  harmonious  Nature  are  among  these. 
The  view  of  it  inspires  a delight  and  ecstasy  which  is  not  onl}^ 
hard  to  describe,  but  which  has  something  secret  in  it  that  a 
man  should  not  utter  loudljq  Hope,  memory,  humility,  tender 


298 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


yearnings  towards  dear  friends,  and  inexpressible  love  and 
reverence  towards  the  Power  which  created  the  infinite  uni- 
verse blazing  above  eternall}' , and  the  vast  ocean  shining  and 
rolling  around  — fill  the  heart  with  a solemn,  humble  happiness, 
that  a person  dwelling  in  a cit}"  has  rarel}^  occasion  to  enjoy. 
They  are  coming  away  from  London  parties  at  this  time  : the 
dear  little  C3'es  are  closed  in  sleep  under  mother’s  wing.  How 
far  off  cit}^  cares  and  pleasures  appear  to  be  ! how  small  and 
mean  they  seem,  dwindling  out  of  sight  before  this  magnificent 
brightness  of  Nature  ! But  the  best  thoughts  only  grow  and 
strengthen  under  it.  Heaven  shines  above,  and  the  humbled 
spirit  looks  up  reverenUy  towards  that  boundless  aspect  of  wis- 
dom and  beaut}".  You  are  at  home,  and  with  all  at  rest  there, 
however  far  away  the}"  may  be  ; and  through  the  distance  the 
heart  broods  over  them,  bright  and  wakeful  like  yonder  peace- 
ful stars  overhead. 

The  day  was  as  fine  and  calm  as  the  night ; at  seven  bells, 
suddenly  a bell  began  to  toll  very  much  like  that  of  a country 
church,  and  on  going  on  deck  we  found  an  awning  raised,  a 
desk  with  a flag  filing  over  it  close  to  the  compass,  and  the 
ship’s  company  and  passengers  assembled  there  to  hear  the 
captain  read  the  Service  in  a manly  respectful  voice.  This, 
too,  was  a novel  and  touching  sight  to  me.  Peaked  ridges  of 
purple  mountains  rose  to  the  left  of  the  ship,  — Finisterre  and 
the  coast  of  Galicia.  The  sky  above  was  cloudless  and  shin- 
ing ; the  vast  dark  ocean  smiled  peacefully  round  about,  and 
the  ship  went  rolling  over  it,  as  the  people  within  were  praising 
the  Maker  of  all. 

In  honor  of  the  day,  it  was  announced  that  the  passengers 
would  be  regaled  with  champagne  at  dinner ; and  accordingly 
that  exhilarating  licpior  was  served  out  in  decent  profusion,  the 
company  drinking  the  captain’s  health  with  the  customary  ora- 
tions of  compliment  and  acknowledgment.  This  feast  was 
scarcely  ended,  when  we  found  ourselves  rounding  the  head- 
land into  Vigo  Bay,  passing  a grim  and  tall  island  of  rocky 
mountains  which  lies  in  the  centre  of  the  bay. 

Whether  it  is  that  the  sight  of  land  is  always  welcome  to 
weary  mariners,  after  the  perils  and  annoyances  of  a voyage 
of  three  days,  or  whether  the  place  is  in  itself  extraordinarilv 
beautiful,  need  not  be  argued  ; but  I have  seldom  seen  any- 
thing more  charming  than  the  amphitheatre  of  noble  hills  into 
which  the  ship  now  came  — all  the  features  of  the  landscape 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


299 


being  lighted  up  with  a wonderful  clearness  of  air,  which  rarel}^ 
adorns  a Auew  in  our  countiy.  The  sun  had  not  }^et  set,  but 
over  the  town  and  loft}"  rock}^  castle  of  Vigo  a great  ghost  of 
a moon  was  faintly  visible,  which  blazed  out  brighter  and 
brighter  as  the  superior  luminary  retired  behind  the  purple 
mountains  of  the  headland  to  rest.  Before  the  general  back- 
ground of  waving  heights  which  encompassed  the  ba}",  rose  a 
second  semicircle  of  undulating  hills,  as  cheerful  and  green  as 
the  mountains  behind  them  were  gra}"  and  solemn.  Farms 
and  gardens,  convent  towers,  white  villages  and  churches,  and 
buildings  that  no  doubt  were  hermitages  once,  upon  the  sharp 
peaks  of  the  hills,  shone  bright!}'  in  the  sun.  The  sight  was 
delightfully  cheerful,  animated,  and  pleasing. 

ITes.ently  the  captain  roared  out  the  magic  words,  “ Stop 
her ! ” and  the  obedient  A^essel  came  to  a stand-still,  at  some 
three  hundred  yards  from  the  little  town,  with  its  white  houses 
clambering  up  a rock,  defended  by  the  superior  mountain 
whereon  the  castle  stands.  Numbers  of  people,  arrayed  in 
various  brilliant  colors  of  red,  were  standing  on  the  sand  close 
by  the  tumbling,  shining,  purple  waves  : and  there  we  beheld, 
for  the  first  time,  the  royal  red  and  yellow  standard  of  Spain 
floating  on  its  own  ground,  under  the  guardiansliip  of  a light 
blue  sentinel,  whose  musket  glittered  in  the  sun.  Numerous 
boats  were  seen,  incontinently,  to  put  off  from  the  little  shore. 

And  now  our  attention  was  withdrawn  from  the  land  to  a 
sight  of  great  splendor  on  board.  This  was  Lieutenant  Bundy, 
the  guardian  of  her  Majesty’s  mails,  who  issued  from  his  cabin 
in  his  long  swallow-tailed  coat  with  anchor  buttons  ; his  sabre 
clattering  between  his  legs  ; a magnificent  shirt-collar,  of  sev- 
eral inches  in  height,  rising  round  his  good-humored  sallow  face  ; 
and  above  it  a cocked  hat,  that  shone  so,  I thought  it  was 
made  of  polished  tin  (it  may  have  been  that  or  oilskin) , hand- 
somely laced  with  black  worsted,  and  ornamented  with  a shin- 
ing gold  cord.  A little  squat  boat,  rowed  by  three  ragged 
gallegos,  came  bouncing  up  to  the  ship.  Into  this  Mr.  Bundy 
and  her  Majesty’s  royal  mail  embarked  with  much  majesty  ; 
and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  royal  standard  of  Eng- 
land, about  the  size  of  a pocket-handkerchief,  — and  at  the 
bows  of  the  boat,  the  man-of-war’s  pennant,  being  a strip  of 
bunting  considerably  under  the  value  of  a farthing,  — streamed 
out. 

“They  know  that  flag,  sir,”  said  the  good-natured  old  tar, 
quite  solemnly,  in  the  evening  afterwards:  “they  respect  it, 
sii\”  The  authority  of  her  Majesty’s  lieutenant  on  board  the 


BOO 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


steamer  is  stated  to  be  so  tremendous,  that  he  may  order  it  to 
stop,  to  move,  to  go  larboard,  starboard,  or  what  you  will ; and 
the  captain  dare  only  disobe}"  him  suo  periculo. 

It  was  agreed  that  a part}^  of  us  should  land  for  half  an 
hour,  and  taste  real  Spanish  chocolate  on  Spanish  ground. 
We  followed  Lieutenant  Bund}',  but  humbly  in  the  provider’s 
boat ; that  officer  going  on  shore  to  purchase  fresh  eggs,  milk 
for  tea  (in  place,  of  the  slim}^  substitute  of  whipped  yolk  of 
egg  which  we  had  been  using  for  our  morning  and  evening 
meals),  and,  if  possible,  oysters,  for  which  it  is  said  the  rocks 
of  Vigo  are  famous. 

It  was  low  tide,  and  the  boat  could  not  get  up  to  the  dry 
shore.  Hence  it  was  necessaiy  to  take  advantage  of  the  offers 
of  sundry  gallegos,  who  rushed  barelegged  into  the  water,  to  land 
on  their  shoulders.  The  approved  method  seems  to  be,  to  sit 
upon  one  shoulder  only,  holding  on  by  the  porter’s  whiskers ; 
<£nd  though  some  of  our  part}'  were  of  the  tallest  and  fattest 
men  whereof  our  race  is  composed,  and  their  living  sedans 
exceedingly  meagre  and  small,  yet  all  were  landed  without 
accident  upon  the  juicy  sand,  and  forthwith  surrounded  by  a 
host  of  mendicants,  screaming,  “ I say,  sir  I penny,  sir!  I say, 
English  1 tain  your  ays  1 penny  ! ” in  all  voices,  from  extreme 
youth  to  the  most  lousy  and  venerable  old  age.  When  it  is 
said  that  these  beggars  were  as  ragged  as  those  of  Ireland, 
and  still  more  voluble,  the  Irish  traveller  will  be  able  to  form 
an  opinion  of  their  capabilities. 

Through  this  crowd  we  passed  up  some  steep  rocky  steps, 
through  a little  low  gate,  where,  in  a little  guard-house  and 
barrack,  a few  dirty  little  sentinels  were  keeping  a dirty  little 
guard  ; and  by  low-roofed,  whitewashed  houses,  with  balconies, 
and  women  in  them,  — the  very  same  women,  with  the  very 
same  head-clothes,  and  yellow  fans  and  eyes,  at  once  sly  and 
solemn,  which  Murillo  painted,  — by  a neat  church  into  which 
We  took  a peep,  and,  finally,  into  the  Plaza  del  Constitucion, 
or  grand  place  of  the  town,  which  may  be  about  as  big  as  that 
pleasing  square.  Pump  Court,  Temple.  We  were  taken  to  an 
inn,  of  which  I forget  the  name,  and  were  shown  from  one 
chamber  and  story  to  another,  till  we  arrived  at  that  apartment 
where  the  real  Spanish  chocolate  was  finally  to  be  served  out. 
All  these  rooms  were  as  clean  as  scrubbing  and  whitewash 
could  make  them  ; with  simple  French  prints  (with  Spanish 
titles)  on  the  walls  ; a few  rickety  half-finished  articles  of  fur- 
niture ; and,  finally,  an  air  of  extremely  respectable  poverty. 
A jolly,  black-eyed,  y«llow- shawled  Dulcinea  conducted  us 


FROM  CORNHTLL  TO  CAIRO.  301 

throiign  the  apartment,  and  provided  us  with  the  desired  re- 
freshment. 

Sounds  of  clarions  drew  our  e}^es  to  the  Place  of  the  Con- 
stitution ; and,  indeed,  I liad  forgotten  to  say,  that  that  ma- 
jestic square  was  tilled  with  militaiy,  with  exceedingl}"  small 
firelocks,  the  men  ludicrousl}^  young  and  diminutive  for  the 
most  part,  in  a uniform  at  once  cheap  and  tawdiy,  — like  those 
supplied  to  the  warriors  at  Astle^  ’s,  or  from  still  humbler  the- 
atrical wardrobes : indeed,  the  whole  scene  was  just  like  that 
of  a little  theatre  ; the  houses  curiously  small,  with  arcades 
and  balconies,  out  of  which  looked  women  apparently  a great 
deal  too  big  for  the  chambers  they  inhabited  ; the  warriors  were 
in  ginghams,  cottons,  and  tinsel ; the  oflicers  had  huge  epaulets 
of  sham  silver  lace  drooping  over  their  bosoms,  and  looked  as 
as  if  the^^  were  attired  at  a very  small  expense.  Only  the  gen- 
eral— the  captain-general  (Pooch,  they  told  us,  was  his  name  : 
t know  not  how  ’tis  written  in  Spanish)  — was  well  got  up, 
with  a smart  hat,  a real  feather,  huge  stars  glittering  on  his 
portly  chest,  and  tights  and  boots  of  the  first  order.  Pres- 
ently, after  a good  deal  of  trumpeting,  the  little  men  marched 
off  the  place.  Pooch  and  his  staff  coming  into  the  veiy  inn  in 
which  we  were  awaiting  our  chocolate. 

Then  we  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  some  of  the  civilians 
of  the  town.  Three  or  four  ladies  passed,  with  fan  and  mantle  ; 
to  them  came  three  or  four  dandies,  dressed  smartly  in  the 
French  fashion,  with  strong  Jewish  plwsiognomies.  There  was 
one,  a solemn  lean  fellow  in  black,  with  his  collars  extremely 
turned  over,  and  holding  before  him  a long  ivory-tipped  ebony 
cane,  who  tripped  along  the  little  place  with  a solemn  smirk, 
which  gave  one  an  indescribable  feeling  of  the  truth  of  Gil 
Bias,  and  of  those  delightful  bachelors  and  licentiates  who 
have  appeared  to  us  all  in  our  dreams. 

In  fact  we  were  but  half  an  hour  in  this  little  queer  Spanish 
town ; and  it  appeared  like  a dream,  too,  or  a little  show  got 
up  to  amuse  us.  Boom  ! the  gun  fired  at  the  end  of  the  funny 
little  entertainment.  The  women  and  the  balconies,  the  beg- 
gars and  the  walking  Murillos,  Pooch  and  the  little  soldiers 
in  tinsel,  disappeared,  and  were  shut  up  in  their  box  again. 
Once  more  we  were  carried  on  the  beggars’  shoulders  out  off 
the  shore,  and  we  found  ourselves  again  in  the  great  stalwart 
roast-beef  world ; the  stout  British  steamer  bearing  out  of  the 
bav  whose  purple  waters  had  grown  more  purple.  The  sun 
had  set  by  this  time,  and  the  moon  above  was  twice  as  big  and 
bright  as  our  degenerate  moons  are. 


302 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


The  provider  had  already  returned  with  his  fresh  stores^ 
and  Bundy’s  tin  hat  was  popped  into  it&  case,  and  he  walking 
the  deck  of  the  packet  denuded  of  tails.  As  we  went  out  of 
the  bay,  occurred  a little  incident  with  which  the  great  inci- 
dents of  the  da}’  may  be  said  to  wind  up.  We  saw  before  us 
a little  vessel,  tumbling  and  plunging  about  in  the  dark  waters 
of  the  bay,  with  a bright  light  beaming  from  the  mast.  It 
made  for  us  at  about  a couple  of  miles  from  the  town,  and 
came  close  up,  flouncing  and  bobbing  in  the  very  jaws  of  the 
paddle,  which  looked  as  if  it  would  have  seized  and  twirled 
round  that  little  boat  and  its  light,  and  destroyed  them  for  ever 
and  ever.  All  the  passengers,  of  course,  came  crowding  to 
the  ship’s  side  to  look  at  the  bold  little  boat. 

“ I SAY  ! ” howled  a man  ; “I  say  ! — a word  ! — I say ! 
Pasagero  ! Pasagero  I Pasage-e-ero  ! ” We  were  two  hundred 
yards  ahead  by  this  time. 

“ Go  on,”  says  the  captain. 

“ You  may  stop  if  you  like,”  says  Lieutenant  Bundy,  exert- 
ing his  tremendous  responsibility.  It  is  evident  that  the  lieu- 
tenant has  a soft  heart,  and  felt  for  the  poor  devil  in  the  boat 
who  was  howling  so  piteously  ‘ ‘ Pasagero  ! ” 

But  the  captain  was  resolute.  His  duty  was  not  to  take  ihe 
man  up.  He  was  evidently  an  irregular  customer — some  one 
trying  to  escape,  possibly. 

The  lieutenant  turned  away,  but  did  not  make  any  further 
hints.  The  captain  was  right ; but  we  all  felt  somehow  disap- 
pointed, and  looked  back  wistfully  at  the  little  boat,  jumping 
up  and  down  far  astern  now ; the  poor  little  light  shining  in 
vain,  and  the  poor  wretch  within  screaming  out  in  the  most 
heart-rending  accents 'a  last  faint  desperate  “I  say!  Pasa- 
gero-o ! ” 

We  all  went  down  to  tea  rather  melancholy ; but  the  new 
milk,  in  the  place  of  that  abominable  whipped  egg,  revived  us 
again  ; and  so  ended  the  great  events  on  board  the  “ Lady 
Mary  Wood  ” steamer,  on  the  25th  August,  1844. 


FROM  COKNllILL  TO  CAIRO. 


303 


CHAPTER  II. 

LISBON  — CADIZ. 

A GREAT  misfortune  wliicli  befalls  a man  who  has  but  a single 
day  to  stay  in  a town,  is  that  fatal  duty  which  superstition 
entails  upon  him  of  visiting  the  chief  lions  of  tlie  city  in  which 
he  may  happen  to  be.  You  must  go  through  tlie  ceremou}', 
however  much  you  may  sigh  to  avoid  it ; and  however  much 
3'ou  know  that  the  lions  in  one  ca|)ital  roar  veiy  much  like  the 
lions  in  another;  that  tlie  churches  are  more  or  less  large  and 
splendid,  the  palaces  [irettv  s[)acious,  all  the  world  over ; and 
that  there  is  scarcely'  a ca[)ital  city  in  this  Europe  but  has  its 
pompous  bronze  statue  or  two  of  some  periwigged,  hook-nosed 
emperor,  in  a Roman  habit,  waving  his  bronze  baton  on  his 
broad-tlaoked  brazen  charger.  AVe  onlv  saw  these  state  old 
lions  in  Lisbon,  whose  roar  has  long  since  ceased  to  frighten 
one.  First  we  went  to  the  church  of  St.  Roch,  to  see  a ftimous 
piece  of  mosaic- work  there.  It  is  a himous  work  of  art,  and 
was  bought  hy  1 don’t  know  what  king  for  I don’t  know  how 
much  monc}’.  All  this  inrormation  may  be  perfectl}’  relied  on, 
though  the  fact  is,  we  did  not  see  the  mosaic-work : the 
sacristan,  who  guards  it,  was  }'et  in  bed  ; and  it  was  veiled 
from  our  e}’es  in  a side-chapel  b}'  great  dirtj’  damask  curtains, 
which  could  not  be  removed,  except  when  the  sacristan’s  toilette 
was  done  ; and  at  the  price  of  a dollar.  So  we  were  spared  this 
mosaic  exhibition  ; ami  I think  I alwa^'s  feel  relieved  when  such 
an  event  occurs.  I feel  I have  done  m3'  dut3'  in  coming  to  see 
the  enormous  animal ; if  he  is  not  at  home,  virtffte  mea  me^  8yc. 
— we  have  done  our  best,  and  mortal  can  do  no  more. 

In  order  to  reach  that  church  of  the  forbidden  mosaic,  we 
had  sweated  np  several  most  steep  and  dusty  streets  — hot  and 
dust3',  although  it  was  but  nine  o’clock  in  the  morning.  Thence 
the  guide  conducted  us  into  some  little  dust-powdered  gardens, 
in  which  the  people  make  believe  to  enjo3'  the  verdure,  and 
whence  von  look  over  a great  [)art  of  the  arid,  dreaiy,  stony 
city.  There  was  no  smoke,  as  in  honest  London,  only  dust  — 
dust  over  the  gaunt  houses  and  the  dismal  3mllow  strips  of 
gardens.  Maiy^  churches  were  there,  and  tall,  half-baked- 
looking  public  edifices,  that  had  a diy,  uncomfortable,  earth- 
quak3'  look,  to  m3"  idea.  The  ground-floors  of  the  spacious 


304 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


houses  by  which  we  passed  seemed  the  coolest  and  pleasantest 
portions  of  the  mansion.  They  were  cellars  or  warehouses,  for 
the  most  part,  in  which  white-jacketed  clerks  sat  smoking  easy 
cigars.  The  streets  were  plastered  with  placards  of  a bull-fight, 
to  take  place  the  next  evening  (there  was  no  opera  at  that 
season)  ; but  it  was  not  a real  Spanish  tauromach}"  — only  a 
theatrical  combat,  as  3'ou  could  sec  bj^  the  picture,  in  which  the 
horseman  was  cantering  off"  at  three  miles  an  hour,  the  bull 
tripping  after  him  with  tips  to  his  gentle  horns.  Mules  inter- 
minable, and  almost  all  excellently  sleek  and  handsome,  were 
pacing  down  every  street : here  and  there,  but  later  in  the  da}% 
came  clattering  along  a smart  rider  on  a prancing  Spanish 
horse  ; and  in  the  afternoon  a few  families  might  be  seen  in 
the  queerest  old-fashioned  little  carriages,  drawn  bj- their  jolly 
mules,  and  swinging  between,  or  rather  before,  enormous  wheels. 

The  churches  I saw  were  of  the  florid  periwig  architecture 
— I mean  of  that  pompous,  cauliflower  kind  of  ornament  which 
was  the  fashion  in  Louis  the  Fifteenth’s  time,  at  which  unlucky 
period  a building  mania  seems  to  have  seized  upon  inaii}^  of 
the  monarchs  of  Europe,  and  innumerable  public  edifices  were 
erected.  It  seems  to  me  to  have  been  the  period  in  all  histoiy 
when  society  was  the  least  natural,  and  perhaps  the  most 
dissolute  ; and  I have  alwaj's  fancied  that  the  bloated  artificial 
forms  of  the  architecture  partake  of  the  social  disorganization 
of  the  time.  Who  can  respect  a simpering  ninny,  grinning  in  a 
Roman  dres^  and  a full-bottomed  wig,  w'ho  is  made  to  pass  off 
for  a hero;  or  a fat  woman  in  a hoop,  and  of  a most  doubtful 
virtue,  w;ho  leers  at  3'ou  as  a goddess?  In  the  palaces  which 
we  saw,  several  court  allegories  were  represented,  which, 
atrocious  as  the3^  were  in  point  of  art,  might  3'et  serve  to 
attract  the  regard  of  the  moralizcr.  There  were  Faith,  Hope, 
and  Charitv  restoring  Don  John  to  the  arms  of  his  liapp3' 
Portugal : there  were  Virtue,  Valor,  and  Victoiy  saluting  Don 
Emanuel : Reading,  Writing,  and  Arithmetic  (for  what  I know, 
or  some  mytliologic  nymphs)  dancing  before  Don  Miguel  — the 
picture  is  there  still,  at  the  Ajuda  ; and  ah  me ! where  is  poor 
iMig?  Well,  it  is  these  state  lies  and  ceremonies  that  we  per- 
sist in  going  to  see  ; whereas  a man  would  have  a much  better 
insight  into  Portuguese  manners,  by  planting  himself  at  a cor- 
ner, like  yonder  beggar,  and  watching  the  real  transactions  of 
the  da3\ 

A drive  to  Belem  is  the  regular  route  i)ractised  b3'  the  trav- 
eller who  has  to  make  onl3'  a short  sta3%  and  accordingh'  a 
couple  of  carriages  were  provided  for  our  partjq  and  we 


FROM  CORNHTLL  TO  CAIRO. 


305 


C^vren  through  the  long  merry  street  of  Belem,  peopled  b}"  end' 
less  strings  of  mules  — hy  thousands  of  gallegos,  with  water- 
barrels  on  their  shoulders,  or  lounging  l)y  the  fountains  to  hire, 

— 1)V  the  Lisbon  and  Belem  omnibuses,  with  four  mules,  jing- 
ling along  at  a good  pace  ; and  it  seemed  to  me  to  present  a 
far  more  lively  and  cheerful,  though  not  so  regular,  an  appear- 
ance as  the  stately  quarters  of  the  city  we  had  left  behind  us. 
The  little  shops  were  at  full  work  — the  men  brown,  well- 
dressed,  manly,  and  handsome  : S(>  much  cannot,  I am  sony 
to  say,  be  said  for  the  ladies,  of  whom,  with  every  anxiety  to 
do  so.  our  party  could  not  perceive  a single  good-looking  speci- 
men all  day.  The  noble  blue  Tagus  accompanies  you  all  along 
these  three  miles  of  busy,  pleasant  street,  whereof  the  chief 
charm,  as  I thought,  was  its  look  of  genuine  business  — that 
appearance  of  comfort  which  the  cleverest  court-architect  never 
knows  how  to  give. 

The  cai'i'iages  (the  canvas  one  with  four  seats  and  the  chaise 
in  which  I drove)  were  lu'ought  suddenly  iq)  to  a gate  with  the 
ro^ml  arms  over  it ; and  here  we  were  introduced  to  as  queer 
an  exhibition  as  the  eye  has  often  looked  on.  This  was  the 
state  carriage-house,  where  there  is  a museum  of  huge  old 
tumble-down  gilded  coaches  of  the  last  century,  lying  here, 
mouldy  and  dark,  in  a sort  of  limbo.  The  gold  has  vanished 
from  the  great  lumbering  old  wheels  and  panels  ; the  velvets 
are  wofully  tarnished.  When  one  thinks  of  the  patches  and 
powder  that  have  simpered  out  of  those  plate-glass  windows  — 
the  mitred  bishops,  the  blg-wigged  marshals,  the  shovel-hatted 
abbes  which  they  have  borne  in  their  time  — the  human  mind 
becomes  affected  in  no  ordinary  degree.  Some  human  minds 
heave  a sigh  for  the  glories  of  bygone  days  ; while  others,  con- 
sidering rather  the  lies  and  humbug,  the  vice  and  servilit}', 
which  went  framed  and  glazed  and  enshrined,  creaking  along 
in  those  old  Juggernaut  cars,  with  fools  worshipping  under  the 
wheels,  console  themselves  for  the  decay  of  institutions  that 
may  have  been  splendid  and  costly,  but  were  ponderous, 
clumsy,  slow,  and  unfit  for  daily  wear.  The  guardian  of  these 
defunct  old  carriages  tells  some  prodigious  fibs  concerning  them  : 
he  pointed  out  one  cari’iage  that  was  six  hundred  years  old  in 
his  calendar ; but  any  connoisseur  in  bricabrac  can  see  it  w'as 
built  at  Paris  in  the  Regent  Orleans’  time. 

Hence  it  is  but  a step  to  an  institution  in  full  life  and  vigor, 

— a noble  orphan-school  for  one  thousand  boys  and  girls, 
founded  by  Don  Pedro,  who  gave  up  to  its  use  the  superb  con  ■ 
vent  of  Belem,  with  its  splendid  cloisters,  vast  aiiy  dormitories, 

20 


306 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


and  magnificent  church.  Some  Oxford  gentlemen  would  havt. 
wept  to  see  the  desecrated  edifice,  — to  think  that  the  shaven 
polls  and  white  gowns  were  banished  from  it  to  give  place  to 
a thousand  children,  who  have  not  even  the  clergy  to  instruct 
them.  “ Ever}^  lad  here  may  choose  his  trade,”  our  little  in- 
formant said,  who  addressed  us  in  better  French  than  any  of 
our  party  spoke,  whose  manners  were  perfectly  gentlemanlike 
and  respectful,  and  whose  clothes,  though  of  a common  cotton 
stuff,  were  cut  and  worn  with  a military  neatness  and  precision. 
All  the  children  whom  we  remarked  were  dressed  with  similar 
neatness,  and  it  was  a pleasure  to  go  through  their  various 
rooms  for  study,  where  some  were  busy  at  mathematics,  some 
at  drawing,  some  attending  a lecture  on  tailoring,  while  others 
were  sitting  at  the  feet  of  a professor  of  the  science  of  shoe- 
making. All  the  garments  of  the  establishment  were  made 

the  pupils  ; even  the  deaf  and  dumb  were  drawing  and  read- 
ing, and  the  blind  were,  for  the  most  part,  set  to  perform  on 
musical  instruments,  and  got  up  a concert  for  the  visitors.  It 
was  then  we  wished  ourselves  of  the  numbers  of  theyleaf  and 
dumb,  for  the  poor  fellows  made  noises  so  horrible,  that  even 
as  blind  beggars  they  could  hardly  get  a livelihood  in  the  musi- 
cal wa}’. 

Hence  we  were  driven  to  the  huge  palace  of  Necessidades, 
which  is  but  a wing  of  a building  that  no  King  of  Portugal 
ought  ever  to  be  rich  enough  to  complete,  and  which,  if  perfect, 
migiit  outvie  the  Tower  of  Babel.  The  mines  of  Brazil  must 
have  been  productive  of  gold  and  silver  indeed  when  the  founder 
imagined  this  enormous  edifice.  From  the  elevation  on  which 
it  stands  it  commands  the  noblest  views,  — the  city  is  spread 
before  it,  with  its  many  churches  and  towers,  and  for  many 
miles  you  see  the  magnificent  Tagus,  rolling  by  banks  crowned 
with  trees  and  towers.  But  to  arrive  at  this  enormous  building 
you  have  to  climb  a steep  suburb  of  wretched  huts,  many  of 
them  with  dismal  gardens  of  dry,  cracked  earth,  where  a few 
reedy  sprouts  of  Indian  corn  seemed  to  be  the  chief  cultivation, 
and  which  were  guarded  by  huge  plants  of  spiky  aloes,  on 
which  the  rags  of  the  propi'ietors  of  the  huts  were  sunning 
themselves.  The  terrace  before  the  palace  was  similarly  en- 
croached upon  by  these  wretched  habitations.  A few  millions 
judiciously  expended  might  make  of  this  arid  hill  one  of  the 
most  magnificent  gardens  in  the  world  ; and  the  palace  seems 
to  me  to  excel  for  situation  any  royal  edifice  I have  ever  seen. 
But  the  huts  of  these  swarming  poor  have  crawled  up  close  to 
its  gates,  — the  superb  walls  of  hewn  stone  stop  all  of  a sudden 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAfRO. 


307 


with  a lath-and-plaster  hitch  ; and  capitals,  and  hewn  stones  for 
colnmns,  still  l3dng  nbont  on  the  deserted  terrace,  ma}^  lie  there 
for  ages  to  come,  probabl}',  and  never  take  their  places  by  the 
side  of  their  brethren  in  }'onder  tall  bankrupt  galleries.  The 
air  of  this  pure  sk}'  has  little  effect  upon  the  edifices,  — the 
edges  of  the  stone  look  as  sharp  as  if  the  builders  had  just  left 
their  work  ; and  close  to  the  grand  entrance  stands  an  out- 
building, part  of  which  may  have  been  burnt  fift}"  }^ears  ago, 
but  is  in  such  cheerful  preservation  that  3 011  might  fancy  the 
fire  had  occurred  yesterda3^  It  must  have  been  an  awful  sight 
from  this  hill  to  have  looked  at  the  cit3'  spread  before  it,  and 
seen  it  reeling  and  swaying  in  the  time  of  the  earthquake.  I 
thought  it  looked  so  hot  and  shak3',  that  one  might  fancy  a re- 
turn of  the  fit.  In  several  places  still  remain  gaps  and  chasms, 
and  ruins  lie  here  and  there  as  the3^  cracked  and  fell. 

Although  the  palace  has  not  attained  anything  like  its  full 
growth,  yet  what  exists  is  quite  big  enough  for  the  monarch  of 
such  a little  countiy ; and  Versailles  or  Windsor  has  not  apart- 
ments more  nobl3’  proportioned.  The  Queen  resides  in  the 
Ajuda,  a building  of  much  less  pretensions,  of  which  the  3-ellow 
walls  and  beautiful  gardens  are  seen  between  Belem  and  the 
city.  The  Necessidades  are  onh^  used  for  grand  galas,  recep- 
tions of  ambassadors,  and  ceremonies  of  state.  In  the  throne- 
room  is  a huge  throne,  surmounted  b3^  an  enormous  gilt  crown, 
than  which  I have  never  seen  anything  larger  in  the  finest  pan- 
tomime at  Drury  Lane  ; but  the  effect  of  this  splendid  piece  is 
lessened  ly'  a shabby  old  Brussels  carpet,  almost  the  011I3'  other 
article  of  furniture  in  the  apartment,  and  not  quite  large  enough 
to  cover  its  spacious  floor.  The  looms  of  Kidderminster  have 
supplied  the  web  which  ornaments  the  “ Ambassadors’  Waiting- 
Room,”  and  the  ceilings  are  painted  with  huge  allegories  in 
distemper,  which  pretty  well  correspond  with  the  other  furni- 
ture. Of  all  the  undignified  objects  in  the  world,  a palace  out 
at  elbows  is  surel3"  the  meanest.  Such  places  ought  not  to  be 
seen  in  adversit3g  — splendor  is  their  decency,  — and  when  no 
longer  able  to  maintain  it,  the3"  should  sink  to  the  level  of  their 
means,  calmy^  subside  into  manufactories,  or  go  shabby  in 
seclusion. 

There  is  a picture-galleiy  belonging  to  the  palace  that  is 
quite  of  a piece  with  the  furniture,  where  are  the  m3ffhologieal 
pieces  relative  to  the  kings  before  alluded  to,  and  where  the 
English  visitor  will  see  some  astonishing  pictures  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  done  in  a very  characteristic  st3de  of  Poilugnese 
art.  There  is  also  a chapel,  which  has  been  decorated  with 


308 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


much  care  and  sumptiiousness  of  ornament,  — the  altar  sur- 
mounted a gliastl)'  and  horrible  carved  figure  in  the  taste  of 
the  time  wliGii  faith  was  strengthened  bj^  the  shrieks  of  Jews 
on  the  rack,  and  enlivened  by  the  roasting  of  heretics.  Other 
such  frightful  images  may  be  seen  in  the  churches  of  the  cit3’ ; 
those  which  we  saw  were  still  rich,  tawdiw,  and  splendid  to 
outward  show,  although  the  French,  as  usual,  had  robbed  their 
shrines  of  their  gold  and  silver,  and  the  statues  of  their  jewels 
and  crowns.  But  brass  and  tinsel  look  to  the  visitor  full  as 
w'ell  at  a little  distance,  — as  doubtless  Soult  and  Junot  thought, 
when  the}'  despoiled  these  places  of  worship,  like  French  phi- 
losophers as  they  were. 

A friend,  with  a classical  turn  of  mind,  was  bent  upon  see- 
ing the  aqueduct,  whither  we  went  on  a dismal  excursion  of 
three  hours,  in  the  worst  carriages,  over  the  most  diabolical 
clattering  roads,  up  and  down  dreary  parched  hills,  on  which 
grew  a few  gray  olive-trees  and  many  aloes.  When  we  arrived, 
the  gate  leading  to  the  aqueduct  was  closed,  and  we  were  en- 
tertained with  a legend  of  some  respectable  character  who  had 
made  a good  livelihood  there  for  some  time  past  lately,  having 
a private  key  to  this  very  aqueduct,  and  lying  in  wait  there  for 
unwary  travellers  like  ourselves,  whom  he  pitched  down  the 
arches  into  the  ravines  below,  and  there  robbed  them  at  leisure. 
So  that  all  we  saw  was  the  door  and  the  tall  arches  of  the  aque- 
duct, and  by  the  time  we  returned  to  town  it  was  time  to  go  on 
board  the  ship  again.  If  the  inn  at  which  we  had  sojourned 
was  not  of  the  best  quality,  the  bill,  at  least,  would  have  done 
honor  to  the  first  establishment  in  London.  We  all  left  the 
house  of  entertainment  joyfully,  glad  to  get  out  of  the  sunburnt 
city  and  go  home.  Yonder  in  the  steamer  was  home,  with  its 
black  funnel  and  gilt  portraiture  of  “Lady  Mary  Wood”  at 
the  bows  ; and  every  soul  on  boaixl  felt  glad  to  return  to  the 
friendly  little  vessel.  But  the  authorities  of  Lisbon,  however, 
are  very  suspicious  of  the  departing  stranger,  and  we  were 
made  to  lie  an  hour  in  the  river  before  the  Sanita  boat,  where 
a passport  is  necessary  to  be  procured  before  the  traveller  can 
quit  the  country.  Boat  after  boat,  laden  with  priests  and  peas- 
antry, with  handsome  red-sashed  gallegos  clad  in  brown,  and 
ill-favored  women,  came  and  got  their  permits,  and  were  off,  as 
we  lay  bumping  up  against  the  old  hull  of  the  Sanita  boat : but 
the  oflfic^ers  seemed  to  take  a delight  in  keeping  us  there  bump- 
ing, looked  at  us  quite  calmly  over  the  ship’s  sides,  and  smoked 
their  cigars  without  the  least  attention  to  the  prayers  which  we 
shrieked  out  for  release- 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


309 


If  we  were  glatl  to  get  awa}*  from  Lisbon,  we  were  quite  as 
sorry  to  be  obliged  to  quit  Cadiz,  which  we  reached  the  next 
night,  and  where  we  were  allowed  a coiqde  of  hours’  leave  to 
laud  and  look  about.  It  seemed  as  handsome  within  as  it  is 
stately"  without ; the  long  narrow  streets  of  an  admirable  clean- 
liness, many  of  the  tall  houses  of  rich  and  noble  decorations, 
and  all  looking  as  if*  the  city  were  in  full  prosperity.  I have 
seen  no  more  cheerful  and  animated  sight  than  the  long  street 
leading  from  the  quay  where  we  were  landed,  and  the  market 
blazing  in  sunshine,  piled  with  fruit,  fish,  and  poultry,  under 
many-colored  awnings  ; the  tall  white  houses  with  their  balco- 
nies and  galleries  shining  round  about,  and  the  sky  above  so 
blue  that  the  best  cobalt  in  all  the  paint-box  looks  mudd}’  and 
dim  in  comparison  to  it.  There  were  pictures  for  a 3’ear  in 
that  market-place  — from  the  copper-colored  old  hags  and  beg- 
gars who  roared  to  you  for  the  lo\  e of  heaven  to  give  mone}', 
to  the  swaggering  dandies  of  the  market,  with  red  sashes  and 
tight  clothes,  looking  on  superbly,  with  a hand  on  the  hip  and 
a cigar  in  the  mouth.  These  must  be  the  chief  critics  at  the 
great  bull-tight  house  yonder  lyy  the  Alameda,  with  its  scanty 
trees  and  cool  breezes,  facing  the  wmter.  Nor  are  there  any 
corks  to  the  bulls’  horns  here  as  at  Lislion.  A small  old  Eng- 
lish guide,  who  seized  upon  me  the  moment  m3'  foot  was  on 
shore,  had  a store  of  agreeable  legends  regarding  the  bulls, 
men,  and  horses  that  had  been  killed  with  unbounded  profusion 
in  the  late  entertainments  which  have  taken  place. 

It  was  so  earl3’  an  hour  in  the  morning  that  the  shops  were 
scarcely  opened  as  yet ; the  churches,  however,  stood  open  for 
the  faithful,  and  we  met  scores  of  women  tripping  towards 
them  with  pretty  feet,  and  smart  black  mantillas,  from  which 
looked  out  fine  dark  eyes  and  handsome  pale  faces,  very  differ- 
ent from  the  coarse  brown  countenances  we  had  seen  at  Lisbon. 
A veiy  handsome  modern  cathedral,  built  by  the  present  bishop 
at  his  own  charges,  was  the  finest  of  the  public  edifices  we  saw  ; 
it  was  not,  however,  nearly  so  much  frequented  as  another 
little  church,  crowded  with  altars  and  fantastic  ornaments,  and 
lights  and  gilding,  where  we  were  told  to  look  behind  a huge 
iron  grille,  and  b(!held  a be\y  of  black  nuns  kneeling.  Most 
of  the  good  ladies  in  the  front  ranks  stopped  their  devotions, 
and  looked  at  the  strangers  with  as  much  curiosit3''  as  we  di- 
rected at  them  through  the  gloom3'  bars  of  their  chapel.  The 
men’s  convents  are  closed  ; that  which  contains  the  famous 
Murillos  has  been  turned  into  an  academ3'  of  the  fine  arts  ; 
but  the  English  guide  did  not  think  the  pictures  were  of  suf- 


310 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


ficient  interest  to  detain  strangers,  and  so  hurried  us  back  to 
the  shore,  and  grumbled  at  only  getting  three  shillings  at  part- 
ing for  his  trouble  and  his  information.  And  so  our  residence 
in  Andalusia  began  and  ended  before  breakfast,  and  we  went 
on  board  and  steamed  for  Gibraltar,  looking,  as  we  passed, 
at  Joinville’s  black  squadron,  and  the  white  houses  of  St. 
Mary’s  across  the  bay^,  with  the  hills  of  Medina  Sidonia  and 
Granada  lying  purple  bey^ond  them.  There’s  something  even 
in  those  names  which  is  pleasant  to  write  down  ; to  have 
passed  only^  two  hours  in  Cadiz  is  something  — to  have  seen 
real  donnas  with  comb  and  mantle  — real  caballeros  with  cloak 
and  cigar  — real -Spanish  barbers  lathering  out  of  brass  basins, 
— and  to  have  heard  guitars  under  the  balconies  : there  was 
one  that  an  old  beggar  was  jangling  in  the  market,  whilst 
a huge  leering  fellow  in  bushy  whiskers  and  a faded  velvet 
dress  came  singing  and  jumping  after  our  party-,  — not  singing 
to  a guitar,  it  is  true,  but  imitating  one  capitally  with  his  voice, 
and  cracking  his  fingers  by  way  of  castanets,  and  performing 
a dance  such  as  Figaro  or  Lablache  might  envy'.  How  clear 
that  fellow’s  voice  thrums  on  the  ear  even  now  and  how 
bright  and  pleasant  remains  the  recollection  of  the  fine  city 
and  the  blue  sea,  and  the  Spanish  flags  floating  on  the  boats 
that  danced  over  it,  and  Joinville’s  band  beginning  to  play 
stirring  marches  as  we  puffed  out  of  the  bay. 

The  next  stage  was  Gibraltar,  where  we  were  to  change 
horses.  Before  sunset  we  skirted  along  the  dark  savage  moun- 
tains of  the  African  coast,  and  came  to  the  Rock  just  before 
gun-fire.  It  is  the  very-  image  of  an  enormous  lion,  crouched 
between  the  Atlantic  and  the  Mediterranean,  and  set  there  to 
guard  the  passage  for  its  British  mistress.  The  next  British  lion 
is  Malta,  four  days  further  on  in  the  Midland  Sea,  and  ready 
to  spring  upon  Egypt  or  pounce  upon  Sy'ria,  or  roar  so  as  to 
be  heard  at  Marseilles  in  case  of  need. 

To  the  eyes  of  the  civilian  the  first-named  of  these  famous 
fortifications  is  by-  far  the  most  imposing.  The  Rock  looks  so 
tremendous,  that  to  ascend  it,  even  without  the  compliment  of 
shells  or  shot,  seems  a dreadful  task  — what  would  it  be  when 
all  those  inysterious  lines  of  batteries  were  vomiting  fire  and 
brimstone  ; when  all  those  dark  guns  that  y'ou  see  poking  their 
grim  heads  out  of  every  imaginable  cleft  and  zigzag  should 
salute  you  with  shot,  both  hot  and  cold  ; and  when,  after  tug- 
ging up  the  hideous  perpendicular  place,  y'Ou  were  to  find  regi- 
ments of  British  grenadiers  ready-  to  plunge  bayonets  into  your 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


311 


[X)or  pantiijg  stomach,  and  let  out  artificially  the  little  breath 
left  there?  It  is  a marvel  to  think  that  soldiers  will  mount 
such  places  for  a shilling — ensigns  for  live  and  ninepence  — a 
day : a cabman  would  ask  double  the  monej'  to  go  half  way  I 
One  meekl}’  reflects  upon  the  above  strange  truths,  leaning  over 
tlie  ship’s  side,  and  looking  up  the  huge  mountain,  from  the 
tower  nestled  at  the  foot  of  it  to  the  thin  flagstaff  at  the  sum- 
mit, up  to  which  have  been  [liled  the  most  ingenious  edifices  for 
murder  Christian  science  ever  adopted.  My  hobby-horse  is  a 
quiet  beast,  suited  for  Park  riding,  or  a gentle  trot  to  Putne}^ 
and  back  to  a snug  stable,  and  plenty  of  feeds  of  corn:  — it 
can’t  abide  climbing  hills,  and  is  not  at  all  used  to  gunpowder. 
Some  men’s  animals  are  so  spirited  that  the  ver}'  appearance  of 
a stone-wall  sets  them  jumping  at  it ; regular  chargers  of  hob- 
bies, which  snort  and  say  — “ Ila,  ha!  ” at  the  mere  notion  of 
a battle. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  “lady  MARY  WOOD.” 

Our  week’s  voyage  is  now  drawing  to  a close.  We  have 
just  been  to  look  at  Cape  Trafalgar,  shining  white  over  the 
finest  blue  sea.  (We,  who  were  looking  at  Trafalgar  Square 
only  the  other  day!)  The  sight  of  that  cape  must  have  dis- 
gusted Joinville  and  his  fleet  of  steamers,  as  they  passed  }^es- 
terday  into  Cadiz  ba}’,  and  to-morrow  will  give  them  a sight  of 
St.  Vincent. 

One  of  their  steam-vessels  has  been  lost  off  the  coast  of 
Africa ; the}’  were  obliged  to  burn  her,  lest  the  Moors  should 
take  possession  of  her.  She  was  a virgin  vessel,  just  out  of 
Brest.  Poor  innocent ! to  die  in  the  very  first  month  of  her 
union  with  the  noble  whiskered  god  of  war ! 

We  Britons  on  board  the  English  boat  received  the  news  of 
the  “ Groenenland’s  ” abrupt  demise  with  grins  of  satisfaction. 
It  was  a sort  of  national  compliment,  and  cause  of  agreeable 
congratulation.  “ The  lubbers  ! ” we  said  ; “ the  clumsy  hum- 
ougs  ! there’s  none  but  Britons  to  rule  the  waves  ! ” and  we 
gave  ourselves  piratical  airs,  and  went  down  presently  and 
were  sick  in  our  little  buggy  berths.  It  was  pleasant-  cer- 
tainly, to  laugh  at  Joinville’s  admiral’s  flag  floating  at  his  fore- 


312 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


mast,  in  3’onder  black  ship,  with  its  two  thundering  great  guns 
at  the  bows  and  stern,  its  bus}"  crew  swarming  on  the  deck, 
and  a crowd  of  obsequious  shore-boats  bustling  round  the  ves- 
sel— and  to  sneer  , at  the  Mogador  warrior,  and  vow  that  we 
English,  had  we  been  inclined  to  do  the  business,^  would  have 
performed  it  a great  deal  better. 

Now  3"es^rda}^  at  Lisbon  we  saw  H.  M.  S.  “Caledonia.”' 
This,  on  the  contrar3%  inspired  us  with  feelings  of  respect  and 
awful  pleasure.  There  she  lay  — the  huge  sea-castle  — bearing 
the  unconquerable  flag  of  our  country.  She  had  but  to  cpen 
her  jaws,  as  it  were,  and  she  might  bring  a second  earthquake 
on  the  cit3' — batter  it  into  kingdom-come  — with  the  Ajuda 
palace  and  the  Necessidades,  the  churches,  and  the  lean,  diy, 
empt3’  streets,  and  Don  John,  tremendous  on  horseback,  in  the 
midst  of  Black  Horse  Square.  Wherever  we  looked  we  could 
see  that  enormous  “Caledonia,”  with  her  flashing  three  lines 
of  guns.  We  looked  at  the  little  boats  which  ever  and  anon 
came  out  of  this  monster,  with  humble  wonder.  There  was  the 
lieutenant  who  boarded  us  at  midnight  before  we  dropped 
anchor  in  the  river : ten  white-jacketed  men  pulling  as  one, 
swept  along  with  the  barge,  gig,  boat,  curricle,  or  coach-and- 
six,  with  which  he  came  up  to  us.  We  examined  him  — his 
red  whiskers  — his  collars  turned  down  — his  ducL  trousers,^ 
his  bullion  epaulets  — with  awe.  With  the  same  reverential 
feeling  we  examined  the  seamen  — the  3’oung  gentl  mian  in  the 
bows  of  the  boat  — the  handsome  young  officers  of  marines  we 
met  sauntering  in  the  town  next  da3' — the  Scotch  surgeon  who 
boarded  us  as  we  weighed  anchor  — every  man,  down  to  tl^e 
broken-nosed  mariner  who  was  drunk  in  a wine-house,  and  had 
“ Caledonia”  written  on  his  hat.  Whereas  at  the  Frenchmen 
we  looked  with  undisguised  contempt.  We  were  ready  to  burst 
with  laughter  as  we  passed  the  Prince’s  vessel — there  was  a 
little  French  boy  in  a French  boat  alongside  cleaning  it,  and 
twirling  about  a little  French  mop  — we  thought  it  the  most 
comical,  contemi)tible  French  bo3’,  mop,  boat,  steamer,  prince 
— Psha  ! it  is  of  this  wretched  vaporing  stuff  that  false  patriot- 
ism is  made.  I write  this  as  a sort  of  homily  apropos  of  the 
da3^,  and  Cape  Trafalgar,  off  which  we  lie.  What  business 
have  I to  strut  the  deck,  and  clap  my  wings,  and  cry  “ Cock- 
a-doodle-doo  ” over  it?  Some  compatriots  are  at  that  work 
even  now. 

We  have  lost  one  by  one  all  our  jovial  company.  There 
were  the  five  Oporto  wine-merchants  — all  heart3^  English  gen 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


313 


tlemen  — gone  to  their  ine  hiitts,  and  their  red-legged  part- 
ridges, and  their  duels  at  Oporto.  It  appears  that  these  gallant 
Britons  fight  every  morning  among  themselves,  and  give  the 
beniglited  peo[)le  among  whom  the}'  live  an  opportunity  to 
admii’e  the  spirit  national.  There  is  the  brave,  honest  major, 
with  his  wooden  leg  — the  kindest  and  simplest  of  Irishmen: 
he  has  embraced  his  children,  and  reviewed  his  little  invalid 
garrison  of  lifteen  men,  in  the  fort  which  he  commands  at 
Belem,  by  this  time,  and,  1 have  no  doubt,  played  to  every 
soul  of  them  the  twelve  tunes  of  his  rnusical-box.  It  was 
pleasant  to  see  him  with  that  musical-box  — how'  pleased  he 
wound  it  u})  after  dinner  — ho\v  Inqiiiil}'  he  listened  to  the  little 
clinking  turres  as  the}'  galloped,  ding-dong,  after  each  other. 
A man  wdro  carries  a rnusical-box  is  always  a good-natured 
man. 

Then  ther'e  w'as  his  Grace,  or  his  Grandeur’,  the  Ar'chbishop 
of  Beyroiitlr  (in  the  parts  of  the  inlidels),  his  Holiness’s  Nuncio 
to  the  court  of  her  Most  Faithful  Majesty,  and  who  mingled 
among  us  like  any  simple  mortal,  — except  that  he  had  an  extra 
smiling  courtesy,  which  simple  mortals  do  not  always  possess  ; 
arrd  wdien  you  passed  him  as  such,  and  puffed  your  cigar  irr  his 
face,  took  off  his  hat  with  a grirr  of  sucii  pr’odigioirs  rapture, 
as  to  lead  you  to  suppose  that  the  most  delicioirs  privilege  of 
his  whole  life  was  that  permission  to  look  at  the  tip  of  your 
irose  or  of  your  cigar.  With  this  most  reverend  prelate  w'as  his 
Grace’s  brother  and  chaplain  — a very  greasy  and  good-natured 
ecclesiastic,  wlio,  fVorn  his  physiognomy,  I w'ould  have  imagined 
to  be  adignitar’y  of  the  Israelrtish  r’ather  than  the  Romish  chirr’ch 
— as  pr-ofuse  in  smiling  courtesy  as  his  Lordship  of  Beyr’outh. 
These  tw'o  had  a meek  little  secretary  l)etw'een  them,  and  a tall 
Fr’ench  cook  and  valet,  who,  at  meal  times,  might  be  seen  busy 
about  the  cabin  wliere  their  rever*ences  lay.  They  w'ere  orr 
their  backs  for  the  greater  part  of  the  voyage  ; tlieir  yellow 
countenances  w'cre  not  only  unshaven,  )>ut,  to  judge  fr’orn  ap- 
pearances, unwashed.  They  ate  in  private  ; and  it  was  only 
of  evenings,  as  the  sun  wxis  setting  over-  the  western  wmve,  and, 
comforted  by  the  dinner,  the  cabin  passenger's  assembled  on 
tile  quarter-deck,  that  we  saw  the  dark  faces  of  the  reverend 
gentlemen  among  us  for  a while.  They  sank  darkly  into  their 
berths  when  the  steward’s  bell  tolled  for  tea. 

At  Lisbon,  where  we  came  to  anchor  at  midnight,  a special 
boat  came  off,  wdiereof  the  crew  exhibited  every  token  of  rev- 
er'ence  for  the  ambassador  of  the  ambassador  of  heaven,  and 
carried  him  off  from  our  company.  This  abrupt  departure  in 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


ni4 

the  darkness  disappointed  some  of  ns,  who  had  promised  our- 
selves the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  Grandeur  depart  in  state  in  the 
morning,  shaved,  clean,  and  in  full  pontificals,  the  tripping  little 
secretary  swinging  an  incense-pot  before  him,  and  the  greasj' 
chaplain  bearing  his  crosier. 

Next  day  we  had  another  bishop,  who  occupied  the  very 
same  berth  his  Grace  of  Be3’routh  had  quitted  — was  sick  in 
the  ver}"  same  way  — so  much  so  that  this  cabin  of  the  “•  Lady 
Maiy  Wood”  is  to  be  christened  “the  bishop’s  berth”  hence- 
forth ; and  a handsome  mitre  is  to  be  painted  on  the  basin. 

Bishop  No.  2 was  a veiy  stout,  soft,  kind-looking  old  gentle- 
man in  a square  cap,  with  a handsome  tassel  of  green  and  gold 
round  his  portl}'  breast  and  back.  He  was  dressed  in  black 
robes  and  tight  purple  stockings  : and  we  carried  him  from  Lis- 
])on  to  the  little  fiat  coast  of  Faro,  of  which  the  meek  old  gen- 
tleman was  the  chief  pastor. 

We  liad  not  been  half  an  hour  from  our  anchorage  in  the 
Tagus,  when  his  lordship  dived  down  into  the  episcopal  berth. 
All  that  night  there  was  a good  smart  breeze  ; it  blew  fresh  all 
the  next  da^q  as  we  went  jumping  over  the  blue  bright  sea  ; and 
there  was  no  sign  of  his  lordship  the  bishop  until  we  were  oppo- 
site the  purple  hills  of  Algarve,  which  la}’  some  ten  miles  dis- 
tant, — a 3’ellow  suniy’  shore  stretching  flat  before  them,  whose 
long  sandy  flats  and  villages  we  could  see  with  our  telescope 
from  the  steamer. 

Presently  a little  vessel,  with  a huge  shining  lateen  sail, 
and  bearing  the  blue  and  white  Portuguese  flag,  wms  seen  play- 
ing a sort  of  leap-frog  on  tlie  jolly  waves,  jumping  over  them, 
and  ducking  down  as  merry  as  could  be.  This  little  boat  came 
towards  the  steamer  as  (piick  as  ever  she  could  jump  ; and 
Captain  Cooper  roaring  out,  “Stop  her!”  to  “Lady  Mary 
AVood,”  her  ladyship’s  paddles  suddenl}'  ceased  twirling,  and 
news  was  carried  to  the  good  bishop  that  his  boat  was  almost 
alongside,  and  that  his  hour  was  come. 

It  was  rather  an  affecting  sight  to  see  the  poor  old  fat  gen- 
tleman, looking  wistfully  over  the  water  as  the  boat  now  came 
up,  and  her  eight  seamen,  with  great  noise,  energy,  and  gesticu- 
lation laid  her  by  the  steamer.  The  steamer  steps  were  let 
down  ; his  lordship’s  servant,  in  blue  and  yellow  livery,  (like 
the  “ Edinburgh  Review,”)  cast  over  the  episcopal  luggage  into 
the  boat,  along  with  his  own  bundle  and  the  jack-boots  with 
which  he  rides  postilion  on  one  of  the  bishop’s  fat  mules  at  Faro. 
The  blue  and  3'ellow  domestic  went  down  the  steps  into  the 
boat.  Then  came  the  bishop’s  turn  ; but  he  couldn’t  do  it  for 


FROM  COKXlllLL  TO  CAIRO. 


315 


a long  while.  He  went  from  one  passenger  to  another,  sadly 
shaking  them  b}'  the  hand,  olten  taking  leave  and  seeming  loth 
to  depart,  until  Captain  Cooper,  in  a stern  but  respectful  tone, 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  said,  1 know  not  Avith  what 
correctness,  being  ignorant  of  the  Spanish  language,  “ Sehor 
’Rispo,  Sehor  TJispo  ! ” on  wliich  summons  the  poor  old  man, 
looking  ruefully  round  him  once  more,  put  his  square  cap  under 
his  arm,  tucked  up  his  long  black  petticoats,  so  as  to  show  his 
purple  stockings  and  Jolly  fat  calves,  and  went  trembling  doAvn 
the  steps  towards  the  boat.  The  good  old  man  ! 1 wish  1 had 

had  a shake  of  that  trembling  podgy  hand  somehow  before  he 
went  upon  his  sea  martyrdom.  J felt  a love  for  that  soft-hearted 
old  Christian.  Ah  ! let  us  hope  his  governante  tucked  him  com- 
fortably in  bed  when  he  got  to  Faio  that  night,  and  made  him 
a warm  gruel  and  put  his  ibet  in  Avaiin  water.  The  men  clung 
around  him,  and  almost  kissed  him  as  they  popped  him  into  the 
boat,  but  he  did  not  heed  their  caresses.  A^vay  Avent  the  boat 
scudding  madly  before  the  Avind.  Rang!  another  lateen-sailed 
boat  in  the  distance  tired  a gun  in  his  honor;  but  the  Avind  Avas 
blowing  away  from  the  shore,  and  avIio  knows  when  that  meek 
bishop  got  home  to  his  gruel ! 

I think  these  Avere  the  notables  of  our  part}".  I Avill  not 
mention  the  laughing,  ogling  lady  of  C'adiz,  Avhose  manners,  I 
very  much  regret  to  say,  Avere  a great  deal  too  livel}'  for  my 
sense  of  propriety  ; nor  those  fair  su Here rs,  her  companions,  aa'Iio 
lay  on  the  deck  with  sickly,  smiling,  female  resignation  : nor 
the  heroic  children,  avIio  no  sooner  ate  biscuit  than  they  AA^ere 
ill,  and  no  sooner  Avere  ill  than  they  began  eating  biscuit 
again  ; but  just  allude  to  one  other  martyr,  the  kind  lieutenant 
in  charge  of  the  mails,  and  avIio  l)ore  his  cross  with  Avhat  I caji’t 
but  think  a A"ery  touching  and  noble  i-esignation. 

There’s  a certain  sort  of  man  Avhose  doom  in  the  world  is 
disappointment,  — Avho  excels  in  it,  — and  Avhose  luckless  tri- 
umphs in  his  meek  career  of  life,  1 have  often  thought,  must 
be  regarded  by  the  kind  eyes  aboA'e  Avith  as  much  favor  as 
the  splendid  successes  and  achievements  of  coarser  and  more 
prosperous  men.  As  I sat  Avith  the  lieutenant  upon  deck,  his 
telescope  laid  OAmr  his  lean  legs,  and  lie  looking  at  the  sunset 
with  a pleased,  Avithered  old  face,  he  gave  me  a little  account 
of  his  history.  I take  it  he  is  in  nowise  disinclined  to  talk 
about  it,  simple  as  it  is  : he  has  been  seven-and-thirty  years  in 
the  naAqy,  being  soraeAvhat  more  mature  in  the  service  than 
Lieutenant  Peel,  Rear-Admiral  Prince  de  Joinville,  and  other 
commanders  who  need  not  be  mentioned.  He  is  a very  well* 


316 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


educated  man,  and  reads  prodigious^, — travels,  histories,  lives 
of  eminent  worthies  and  heroes,  in  his  simple  way.  He  is  not 
in  the  least  angry  at  his  want  of  luck  in  the  profession. 
“ Were  I a boy  to-morrow,”  he  said,  I would  begin  it  again  ; 
and  when  I see  my  schoolfellows,  and  how  they  have  got  on  in 
life,  if  some  are  better  off  than  I am,  I find  man}'  are  worse, 
and  have  no  call  to  be  discontented.”  So  he  carries  her 
Majest}'’s  mails  meekly  through  this  world,  waits  upon  port- 
admirals  and  captains  in  his  old  glazed  hat,  and  is  as  proud  of 
the  pennon  at  the  bow  of  his  little  boat,  as  if  it  were  flying 
from  the  mainmast  of  a thundering  man-of-war.  He  gets  two 
hundred  a 3'ear  for  his  services,  and  has  an  old  mother  and  a 
sister  living  in  England  somewhere,  who  I will  wager  (though 
he  never,  I swear,  said  a word  about  it)  have  a good  portion  of 
this  princel}^  income. 

Is  it  breaking  a confidence  to  tell  Lieutenant  Bundy’s  his- 
tory? Let  the  motive  excuse  the  deed.  It  is  a good,  kind, 
wholesome,  and  noble  character.  Wh}'  should  we  keep  all  our 
admiration  for  those  who  win  in  this  world,  as  we  do,  sycophants 
as  we  are?  When  we  write  a novel,  our  great,  stupid  imagina- 
tions can  go  no  further  tlian  to  many  the  hero  to  a fortune  at 
the  end,  and  to  find  out  that  he  is  a lord  by  right.  O blunder- 
ing, lickspittle  morality  ! And  }'et  I would  like  to  fancy  some 
ha[)py  retributive  Uto[)ia  in  the  peaceful  cloudland,  where  m}'^ 
friend  the  meek  lieutenant  should  find  the  yards  of  his  ship 
manned  as  he  went  on  board,  all  the  guns  firing  an  enormous 
salute  (only  without  the  least  noise  or  vile  smell  of  powder), 
and  he  be  saluted  on  the  deck  as  Admiral  Sir  James,  or  Sir  Jo- 
seph— ay,  or  Lord  Viscount  Bundy,  knight  of  all  the  orders 
above  the  sun. 

I think  this  is  a suflicient,  if  not  a complete  catalogue  of  the 
worthies  on  board  the  Lady  Mary  Wood.”  In  the  week  we 
were  on  board  — it  seemed  a year  by  the  wa}'  — we  came  to 
regard  the  ship  quite  as  a home.  We  felt  for  the  captain  — the 
most  good-humored,  active,  careful,  ready  of  captains  — a filial, 
a fraternal  regard  ; for  the  provider,  who  provided  for  us  with 
admirable  comfort  and  generosit}',  a genial  gratitude  ; and  for  the 
brisk  steward’s  lads  — brisk  in  serving  the  banquet,  sympathiz- 
ing in  handing  the  basin  — every  possible  sentiment  of  regard 
and  good-will.  What  winds  blew,  and  how  man}' knots  we  ran, 
are  all  noted  down,  no  doubt,  in  the  ship’s  log : and  as  for  what 
slii[)s  we  saw  — every  one  of  them  with  theii’  gunnage,  tonnage; 


their  nation,  their  direction  whither  they  were  bound 
not  these  all  noted  down  with  s’Ln”.wisi:m'  iiigcnuitv  and  p 


were 

nsiou 


FROM  CORNIULL  TO  CAIRO. 


317 


tf>y  the  lieutenant,  at  a fa  mil}'  desk  at  which  he  sat  every  niglit, 
i)efore  a great  paper  elegantly  and  in^’steriously  ruled  off  with 
his  large  ruler?  1 have  a regard  for  everv  man  on  board  that 
ship,  from  the  captain  down  to  the  ci’ew  — down  even  to  the 
cook,  with  tattooed  arms,  sweating  aiming  the  saucepans  in  the 
galk'3',  wlio  used  (with  a touching  affection)  to  send  us  locks  of 
his  hair  in  the  sou[).  And  so,  while  our  feelings  and  recollec- 
tions ai'c  warm,  let  us  shake  hands  with  this  knot  of  good 
fellows,  comfoi'tably  floating  about  in  their  little  box  of  wood 
and  iron,  across  Channel,  Biscay  Bay,  and  the  Atlantic,  from 
Southampton  Water  to  Gibraltar  Straits. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


•Gin  UAL  r A u. 

Suppose  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  to  send  fitting  ambassa- 
dors to  represent  them  at  Wap[)ing  or  Portsmouth  Point,  with 
each,  under  its  own  national  signboard  and  language,  its  appro- 
})riate  house  of  call,  and  your  imagination  may  ligure  the  Main 
Street  of  Gibraltar  : almost  the  only  i)art  of  the  town,  I believe, 
which  boasts  of  the  name  of  street  at  all,  the  remaining  house- 
I'ows  being  modestly  called  lanes,  such  as  Bomb  Lane,  Battery 
Lane,  Fusee  Lane,  and  so  on.  In  Main  Street  the  Jews  predomi- 
nate, the  Moors  abound;  and  from  the  ‘GJ0II3"  Sailor,”  or  the 
brave  Horse  Marine,”  where  the  people  of  our  nation  are  drink- 
ing British  beer  and  gin,  you  hear  choruses  of  “ Garryowen  ” or 
“ The  Lass  I left  behind  me  ; ” while  through  the  flaring  lattices 
of  the  Spanish  ventas  come  the  clatter  of  castanets  and  the 
jingle  and  moan  of  Spanish  guitars  and  ditties.  It  is  a curious 
sight  at  evening  this  thronged  street,  with  the  people,  in  a 
hundred  different  costumes,  bustling  to  and  fro  under  the  coarse 
hare  of  the  lamps  ; swarthy  Moors,  in  white  or  crimson  robes  ; 
dark  Spanish  smugglers  in  tufted  hats,  with  gay  silk  handker- 
chiefs round  their  heads  ; fuddled  seamen  from  men-of-war,  or 
merchantmen  ; porters,  Galician  or  Genoese  ; and  at  every  few 
minutes’  interval,  little  squads  of  soldiers  tramping  to  relieve 
guard  at  some  one  of  the  innumeral)le  posts  in  the  town. 

Some  of  our  part}’  went  to  a Spanish  venta,  as  a more  con- 
venient or  romantic  j)lace  of  residence  than  a»  English  house ; 


818 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


others  made  choice  of  the  club-house  in  Commercial  Square, 
of  which  I formed  an  agreeable  picture  in  my  imagination  ; 
rather,  perhaps,  resembling  the  Junior  United  Service  Club  in 
Charles  Street,  by  which  eveiy  Londoner  has  passed  ere  this 
with  respectful  pleasure,  catching  glimpses  of  magnificent 
blazing  candelabras,  under  which  sit  neat  half-pay  officers, 
drinking  half-pints  of  port.  The  club-house  of  Gibraltar  is  not, 
however,  of  the  Charles  Street  sort ; it  may  have  been  cheerful 
once,  and  there  are  }^et  relics  of  splendor  about  it.  When 
officers  wore  pigtails,  and  in  the  time  of  Governor  O’Hara,  it 
ma}^  have  been  a handsome  place  ; but  it  is  mouldy  and  decrepit 
ijow  ; and  though  his  Excellenc}^  Mr.  Bulwer,  was  living  there, 
and  made  no  complaints  tliat  I heard  of,  other  less  distinguished 
persons  thought  they  had  reason  to  grumble.  Indeed,  what  is 
travelling  made  of  ? At  least  half  its  pleasures  and  incidents 
come  out  of  inns  ; and  of  them  the  tourist  can  speak  with  much 
more  truth  and  vivacity  than  of  historical  recollections  compiled 
out  of  histories,  or  filched  out  of  handbooks.  But  to  speak  of 
the  best  inn  in  a place  needs  no  apology ; that,  at  least,  is  use- 
ful information  ; as  every  person  intending  to  visit  Gibraltar 
cannot  have  seen  the  flea-l)itten  countenances  of  our  companions, 
who  fied  from  tlieii-  Spanish  venta  to  take  refuge  at  the  club  the 
morning  after  our  arrival,  the}'  may  surely  be  thankful  for  being 
directed  to  the  best  house  of  accommodation  in  one  of  the  most 
unromantic,  uncomfortable,  and  prosaic  of  towns. 

If  one  had  a right  to  break  tlie  sacred  confidence  of  the 
mahogan}^  I could  entertain  you  with  maiw  queer  stories  of 
Gibraltar  life,  gathered  from  the  lips  of  the  gentlemen  who 
enjo}'ed  themselves  round  the  dingy  tablecloth  of  the  club-house 
coffee-room,  richly  decorated  with  cold  gravy  and  spilt  beer.  I 
heard  there  the  very  names  of  the  gentlemen  who  wrote  the 
famous  letters  from  the  “ Warspite  ” regarding  the  French  pro- 
ceedings at  Mogador ; and  met  several  refugee  Jews  from  that 
place,  who  said  that  they  were  much  more  afraid  of  the  Kabyles 
without  the  city  than  of  the  guns  of  the  French  squadron,  of 
which  they  seemed  to  make  rather  light.  I heard  the  last  odds 
on  the  ensuing  match  between  Captain  Smith’s  b.  g.  Bolter, 
and  Captain  Brown’s  ch.  c.  Roarer : how  the  gun-room  of  her 
Majesty’s  ship  “ Purgatory  ” had  “ cobbed  ” a tradesman  of  the 
town,  and  of  the  row  in  consequence.  I heard  capital  stories 
of  the  way  in  which  Wilkins  had  escaped  the  guard,  and  Thomp- 
son had  been  locked  up  among  the  mosquitoes  for  being  out 
after  ten  without  the  lantern.  I heard  how  the  governor  was  an 
old , but  to  say  what,  would  be  breaking  a confidence  ; only 


FROM  COROTIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


31& 


this  may  be  divulged,  that  the  epithet  was  exceedingly  compli- 
mentary to  Sir  Robert  Wilson.  All  the  while  these  conversations 
were  going  on,  a strange  scene  of  noise  and  bustle  was  passing 
in  the  market-place,  in  front  of  the  window,  where  Moors,  Jews, 
Spaniards,  soldiers  were  thronging  in  the  sun  ; and  a ragged  fat 
fellow,  mounted  on  a tobacco-barrel,  with  his  hat  cocked  on  his 
ear,  was  holding  an  auction,  and  roaring  with  an  energy  and 
impudence  that  would  have  done  credit  to  Covent  Garden. 

The  Moorish  castle  is  the  only  building  about  the  Rock  which 
has  an  air  at  all  picturesque  or  romantic  ; there  is  a plain  Roman 
Catholic  cathedral,  a hideous  new  Protestant  church  of  the  cigar- 
divan  architecture,  and  a Court-house  with  a portico  which  is 
said  to  be  an  imitation  of  the  Parthenon  : the  ancient  religious 
houses  of  the  Spanish  town  are  gone,  or  turned  into  military 
residences,  and  marked  so  that  you  would  never  know  their 
former  pious  destination.  Yon  walk  through  narrow  white- 
washed lanes,  bearing  such  martial  names  as  are  before  men- 
tioned, and  b}'-streets  with  barracks  on  either  side : small 
Newgate-like  looking  buildings,  at  the  doors  of  which  }^ou  may 
see  the  sergeants’  ladies  conversing ; or  at  the  open  windows  of 
the  ollicers’  quarters.  Ensign  Fipps  lying  on  his  sofa  and  smok- 
ing his  cigar,  or  Lieutenant  Simson  practising  the  flute  to  while 
awa}"  the  weary  hours  of  garrison  dulness.  i wac  surprised  nots 
to  find  more  persons  in  the  garrison  libraiy,  where  is  a magnifi- 
cent reading-room,  and  an  admirable  collection  of  books. 

In  spite  of  the  scanty  herbage  and  the  dust  on  the  trees,  the 
Alameda  is  a beautiful  walk ; of  which  the  vegetation  has  been 
as  laboriously  cared  for  as  the  tremendous  fortifications  which 
flank  it  on  either  side.  The  vast  Rock  rises  on  one  side  with 
its  interminable  works  of  defence,  and  Gibraltar  Bay  is  shining 
on  the  other,  out  on  which  from  the  terraces  immense  cannon 
are  perpetually  looking,  surrounded  by  plantations  of  cannon- 
balls and  beds  of  bomb-shells,  sufficient,  one  would  think,  to 
blow  away  the  whole  Peninsula.  Tlie  horticultural  and  military 
mixture  is  indeed  very  queer : here  and  there  temples,  rustic 
summer-seats,  &c.  have  been  erected  in  the  garden,  but  you  are 
sure  to  see  a great  squat  mortar  look  up  from  among  the  flower- 
pots : and  amidst  the  aloes  and  geraniums  sprouts  the  green 
petticoat  and  scarlet  coat  of  a Highlander.  F'atigne-parties  are 
seen  winding  up  the  hill,  and  busy  about  the  endless  cannon- 
ball plantations ; awdvward  squads  are  drilling  in  the  open 
spaces  : sentries  marching  everywdiere,  and  (this  is  a caution  to 
artists)  I am  told  have  orders  to  run  any  man  through,  who  is 
discovered  making  a sketch  of  the  place.  It  is  always  beautiful. 


320 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


especially  at  evening,  when  the  people  are  sauntering  along  the 
walks,  and  the  moon  is  shining  on  the  waters  of  the  bay  and 
the  hills  and  twinkling  white  houses  of  the  opposite  shore.  Then 
the  place  becomes  quite  romantic : it  is  too  dark  to  see  the 
dust  on  the  dried  leaves  ; the  cannon-balls  do  not  intrude  too 
much,  but  have  subsided  into  the  shade  ; the  awkward  squads 
are  in  bed ; even  the  loungers  are  gone,  the  fan-flirting  Spanish 
ladies,  the  sallow  black-e3'ed  children,  and  the  trim  white- 
jacketed  dandies.  A fife  is  heard  from  some  craft  at  roost  on 
the  quiet  waters  somewhere  ; or  a faint  cheer  from  yonder  black 
steamer  at  the  Mole,  which  is  about  to  set  out  on  some  night 
expedition.  You  forget  that  the  town  is  at  all  like  Wapping, 
and  deliver  3^ourself  up  entirely  to  romance  ; the  sentries  look 
noble  pacing  there,  silent  in  the  moonlight,  and  Sandy’s  voice 
is  quite  musical  as  he  challenges  with  a ‘ ‘ Who  goes  there  ? ” 

“ All’s  well  ” is  veiy  pleasant  when  sung  decentl3^  in  tune, 
and  inspires  noble  and  poetic  ideas  of  duty,  courage,  and 
danger : but  when  3 011  hear  it  shouted  all  the  night  through, 
accompanied  1)3"  a clapping  of  muskets  in  a time  of  profound 
peace,  the  sentinel’s  ciy  becomes  no  more  romantic  to  the 
hearer  than  it  is  to  the  sand3"  Connaught-man  or  the  barelegged 
Highlander  who  delivers  it.  It  is  best  to  read  about  wars  com- 
fortabl3"  in  Harry  Lorrequer  or  Scott’s  novels,  in  which  knights 
shout  their  war-cries,  and  jovial  Irish  ba3"oneteers  hurrah,  with- 
out depriving  you  of  any  blessed  rest.  Men  of  a different  way 
of  thinking,  however,  can  suit  themselves  perfectl3"  at  Gibraltar  ; 
where  there  is  marching  and  counter-marching,  challenging  and 
relieving  guard  all  the  night  through.  And  not  here  in  Com- 
mercial Square  alone,  but  all  over  the  huge  Rock  in  the  dark- 
ness — all  through  the  mysterious  zig-zags,  and  round  the  dark 
cannon-ball  p3"ramids,  and  along  the  vast  rock-galleries,  and  up 
to  the  topmost  flagstaff,  where  the  sentiy  can  look  out  over  two 
seas,  poor  fellows  are  marching  and  clapping  muskets,  and 
crying  “All’s  Well,”  dressed  in  cap  and  feather,  in  place  of 
honest  nightcaps  best  befitting  the  decent  hours  of  sleep. 

All  these  martial  noises  three  of  us  heard  to  the  utmost 
advantage,  13’ing  on  iron  bedsteads  at  the  time  in  a cracked 
old  room  on  the  ground  floor,  the  open  windows  of  which 
looked  into  the  square.  No  spot  could  be  more  favorabl3" 
selected  for  watching  the  humors  of  a garrison-town  by  night. 
About  midnight,  the  door  hard  b3^  us  was  visited  b3"  a part3"  of 
young  officers,  who  having  had  quite  as  much  drink  as  was 
good  for  them,  were  naturall3"  inclined  for  more ; and  when  we 
remonstrated  through  the  wiMows,  one  of  them  in  a 3’oung 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


321 


ti[)sy  voice  asked  after  oiir  mothers,  and  iinall}^  reeled  away. 
How  cliarming  is  the  conversation  of  high-spirited  3^onth  ! I 
don’t  know  whether  the  guard  got  hold  of  them : but  certainl}" 
if  a civilian  had  been  hiccupping  through  the  streets  at  that  hour 
he  would  have  been  carried  otf  to  the  guard- house,  and  left  to 
the  mere}"  of  the  mosquitoes  there,  and  had  up  before  the  Gov- 
ernor in  the  morning.  The  .young  man  in  the  coffee-room  tells 
me  he  goes  to  sleep  every  night  with  the  keys  of  Gibraltar  under 
his  pillow.  It  is  an  awful  ijiiage,  and  somehow  completes  the 
notion  of  the  slumbering  fortress.  Fancy  Sir  Robert  Wilson, 
his  nose  just  visible  over  the  sheets,  his  nightcap  and  the  huge 
key  (you  see  the  very  identical  one  in  Reynolds’s  portrait  of 
Lord  Ileathfield)  peeping  out  from  under  the  bolster ! 

If  I entertain  you  with  accounts  of  inns  and  nightcaps  it  is 
because  I am  more  familiar  with  these  subjects  than  with  history 
and  fortifications:  as  far  as  1 can  understand  the  former,  Gib- 
raltar is  the  great  British  depot  for  smuggling  goods  into  the 
Peninsula.  You  see  vessels  lying  in  the  harbor,  and  are  told 
in  so  many  words  they  are  smugglers  ; all  those  smart  Span- 
iards with  cigar  and  mantles  are  smugglers,  and  run  tobaccos 
and  cotton  into  Catalonia ; all  the  respected  merchants  of  the 
place  are  smugglers.  The  other  day  a Spanish  revenue  vessel 
was  shot  to  death  under  the  thundering  great  guns  of  the  fort, 
for  neglecting  to  bring  to,  but  it  so  happened  that  it  was  in 
chase  of  a smuggler ; in  this  little  corner  of  her  dominions 
Britain  proclaims  war  to  custom-houses,  and  protection  to  free 
trade.  Perhaps  ere  a very  long  day,  England  may  be  acting 
that  part  towards  the  world,  wdiich  Gibraltar  performs  towards 
Spain  now  ; and  the  last  war  in  which  we  shall  ever  engage  may 
be  a custom-house  w-ar.  For  once  establish  railroads  and 
abolish  preventive  duties  through  Europe,  and  what  is  there 
left  to  fight  for?  It  will  matter  very  little  then  under  what  flag 
[)eople  live,  and  foreign  ministers  and  ambassadors  ma}'  enjoys 
a dignified  sinecure  ; the  army^  will  rise  to  the  rank  of  peaceful 
constables,  not  having  any  more  use  for  their  bayonets  than 
those  worthy’  people  have  for  their  weapons  now  who  accom- 
pany’ the  law  at  assizes  under  the  name  of  javelin-men.  The 
apparatus  of  bombs  and  eighty’-foiir-pounders  may  disappear 
from  the  Alameda,  and  the  crops  of  cannon-balls  which  now 
grow  there  may’  give  place  to  other  plants  more  pleasant  to  the 
eye  ; and  the  great  key  of  Gibraltar  may"  be  left  in  the  gate  for 
any’body  to  turn  at  will,  and  Sir  Robert  Wilson  may  sleep  at 
quiet. 


21 


322 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


I am  afraid  I thought  it  was  rather  a release,  when,  having 
made  up  our  minds  to  examine  the  Roek  in  detail  and  view  the 
niagnificent  excavations  and  galleries,  the  admiration  of  all 
military  men,  and  the  terror  of  au}^  enemies  who  may  attack 
the  fortress,  we  received  orders  to  embark  forthwith  in  the 
Tagus,”  which  was  to  carry  us  to  Malta  and  Constantinople. 
So  we  took  leave  of  this  famous  Rock  — this  great  blunderbuss 
— which  we  seized  out  of  the  hands  of  the  natural  owners  a 
hundred  and  fort}"  }"ears  ago,  and  which  we  have  kept  ever 
since  tremendously  loaded  and  cleaned  and  read}"  for  use.  To 
seize  and  have  it  is  doubtless  a gallant  thing ; it  is  like  one  of 
those  tests  of  courage  which  one  reads  of  in  the  chivalrous 
romances,  when,  for  instance.  Sir  Huon  of  Bordeaux  is  called 
upon  to  prove  his  knighthood  by  going  to  Babylon  and  pulling- 
out  the  Sultan’s  beard  and  Iront  teeth  in  the  midst  of  his  court 
there.  But,  after  all,  justice  must  confess  it  was  rather  hard  on 
the  poor  Sultan.  If  we  had  the  Spaniards  established  at  Land’s 
End,  with  impregnable  Spanish  fortifications  on  St.  Michael’s 
Mount,  we  should  perhaps  come  to  the  same  conclusion.  Mean- 
while let  us  hope,  during  this  long  period  of  deprivation,  the 
Sultan  of  Spain  is  reconciled  to  the  loss  of  his  front  teeth  and 
bristling  whiskers  — let  us  even  try  to  think  that  he  is  better 
without  them.  At  all  events,  right  or  wrong,  whatever  may  be 
our  title  to  the  property,  there  is  no  Englishman  but  must  think 
with  pride  of  the  manner  in  which  his  countrymen  have  kept  it, 
and  of  the  courage,  endurance,  and  sense  of  duty  with  which 
stout  old.  Eliot  and  his  companions  resisted  Crillion  and  the 
Spanish  battering-ships  and  his  fifty  thousand  men.  There 
seems  to  be  something  more  noble  in  the  success  of  a gallant 
resistance  than  of  an  attack,  however  brave.  After  failing  in 
his  attack  on  the  fort,  the  French  General  visited  the  English 
Commander  who  had  foiled  him,  and  parted  from  him  and  his 
garrison  in  perfect  politeness  and  good  humor.  The  English 
troops.  Drink  water  says,  gave  him  thundering  cheers  as  he 
went  away,  and  the  French  in  return  complimented  us  on  our 
gallantry,  and  lauded  the  humanity  of  our  people.  If  we  are  to 
go  on  murdering  each  other  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  wdiat  a 
pity  it  is  that  our  battles  cannot  end  in  the  old-fashioned  way 
too. 

One  of  our  fellow-travellers,  who  had  written  a book,  and 
had  suffered  considerably  from  sea-sickness  during  our  passage 
along  the  coasts  of  France  and  Spain,  consoled  us  all  by  saying 
that  the  very  minute  we  got  into  the  Mediterranean  we  might 
consider  ourselves  entirely  free  from  illness  ; ap.cL  iu  fact,  that 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


323 


it  was  unheard  of  in  the  Inland  Sea.  Even  in  the  Ba}^  of  Gib- 
raltar tlie  water  looked  bluer  than  anything  I have  ever  seen  — 
except  Miss  Snhth’s  e}’es.  I thought,  somehow,  the  delicious 
faultless  azure  never  could  look  angiy  — just  like  the  e3'es  be- 
fore alluded  to  — and  under  this  assurance  we  passed  the  Strait, 
and  began  coasting  the  African  shore  calmly  and  without  the 
least  apprehension,  as  if  we  were  as  much  used  to  the  tempest 
as  Mr.  T.  P.  Cooke. 

But  when,  in  spite  of  the  promise  of  the  man  who  had  written 
the  book,  we  found  ourselves  worse  than  in  the  worst  part  of 
the  Bay  of  Bisca^^  or  off  the  storm-lashed  rocks  of  Finisterre, 
we  set  down  the  author  in  question  as  a gross  impostor,  and 
had  a mind  to  quarrel  with  him  for  leading  us  into  this  cruel 
error.  The  most  provoking  part  of  the  matter,  too,  was,  that 
the  sk}^  was  deliciously  clear  and  cloudless,  the  air  balmy,  the 
sea  so  insultingly  blue  that  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  no  right  to  be 
ill  at  all,  and  that  the  innumerable  little  waves  that  frisked 
round  about  our  keel  were  enjo3’ing  an  cmerithmon  gelasma  (this 
is  one  of  my  four  Greek  quotations  : depend  on  it  I will  manage 
to  introduce  the  other  three  before  the  tour  is  done)  — seemed 
to  be  enjoying,  I say,  the  above  named  Greek  quotation  at  our 
expense.  Here  is  the  dismal  log  of  Wednesday,  4th  of  Septem- 
ber : — “All  attempts  at  dining  veiy  fruitless.  Basins  in 
requisition.  Wind  hard  ahead.  Qne  dlahle  allais-je  faire  dans 
cette  galere  ? Writing  or  thinking  impossible  : so  read  letters 
from  the  HEgean.”  These  l>rief  words  give,  I think,  a complete 
idea  of  wretchedness,  des[)air,  remorse,  and  prostration  of  soul 
and  bod3^  Two  da3^s  prev4ousl3'  we  passed  the  forts  and  moles 
and  yellow  buildings  of  Algiers,  rising  very  stately  from  the 
sea,  and  skirted  by  gloom3"  purple  lines  of  African  shore,  with 
fires  smoking  in  the  mountains,  and  lonel3'  settlements  here  and 
there. 

On  the  5th,  to  the  inexpressible  joy  of  all,  we  reached 
Yaletta,  the  entrance  to  the  harbor  of  which  is  one  of  the  most 
stately  and  agreeable  scenes  ever  admired  by  sea-sick  travel- 
ler. The  small  basin  was  busy  with  a hundred  ships,  from  the 
huge  guard-ship,  which  lies  there  a city  in  itself ; — merchant- 
men loading  and  crews  cheering,  under  all  the  flags  of  the  world 
flaunting  in  the  sunshine  ; a half-score  of  busy  black  steamers 
perpetuall3’  coming  and  going,  coaling  and  painting,  and  puffing 
and  hissing  in  and  out  of  harbor  ; slim  men-of-war’s  barges  shoot- 
ing to  and  fro,  with  long  shining  oars  flashing  like  wings  over  the 
water ; hundreds  of  painted  town-boats,  with  high  heads  and 
white  awnings,  — down  to  the  little  tubs  In  which  some  naked, 


324 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


ttiwn3’3^omig  beggars  came  paddling  up  to  the  steamer,  entreat- 
ing ns  to  let  them  dive  for  halfpence.  Round  this  bus3^  blue 
water  rise  rocks,  blazing  in  sunshine,  and  covered  with  every 
imaginable  device  of  fortification  ; to  the  right,  St.  Elmo,  with 
flag  and  light-house  ; and  opposite,  the  Militaiy  Hospital,  look- 
ing like  a palace  ; and  all  round,  the  houses  of  the  cit3g  for  its 
size  the  handsomest  and  most  stateH  in  the  world. 

Nor  does  it  disappoint  3’ou  on  a closer  inspection,  as  many 
a foreign  town  does.  The  streets  are  thronged  with  a livel3g 
comfortable-looking  population  ; the  poor  seem  to  inhabit  hand- 
some stone  palaces,  with  balconies  and  projecting  windows  of 
heav3^  carved  stone.  The  lights  and  shadows,  the  cries  and 
stenches,  the  fruit-shops  and  fish-stalls,  the  dresses  and  chatter 
of  all  nations ; the  soldiers  in  scarlet,  and  w^omen  in  black 
mantillas  ; the  beggars,  boatmen,  barrels  of  pickled  herrings  and 
maccaroni ; the  shovel-hatted  priests  and  bearded  capuchins  ; 
the  tobacco,  grapes,  onions,  and  sunshine ; the  signboards, 
bottled-porter  stores,  the  statues  of  saints  and  little  chapels 
which  jostle  the  stranger’s  e3*es  as  he  goes  up  the  famous  stairs 
from  the  Water-gate,  make  a scene  of  such  pleasant  confusion 
and  liveliness  as  I have  never  witnessed  before.  And  the 
effects  of  the  groups  of  multitudinous  actors  in  this  bus3^  cheer- 
ful drama  is  heightened,  as  it  were,  bv  the  decorations  of  the 
stage.  The  sk3^  is  delightfully  brilliant ; all  the  houses  and 
ornaments  are  statel3' ; castles  and  palaces  are  rising  all  around  ; 
and  the  flag,  towers,  and  walls  of  Fort  St.  Elmo  look  as  fresh 
and  magnihcent  as  if  they  had  been  erected  011I3'  3’esterda3’. 

The  Strada  Reale  has  a much  more  courtly  appearance  than 
that  one  described.  Here  are  palaces,  churches,  court-houses 
and  libraries,  the  genteel  London  shops,  and  the  latest  articles 
of  perfumery.  Gay  young  officers  are  strolling  about  in  shell- 
jackets  much  too  small  for  them  : midshipmen  are  clattering  1)3' 
on  hired  horses  ; squads  of  priests,  habited  after  the  fashion  of 
Don  Basilio  in  the  opera,  are  demureh'  pacing  to  and  fro ; pro- 
fessional beggars  run  shrieking  after  the  stranger ; and  agents 
for  horses,  for  inns,  and  for  worse  places  still,  follow  him  and 
insinuate  the  excellence  of  their  goods.  The  houses  where 
the3'  are  selling  carpet-bags  and  pomatum  were  the  palaces  of 
the  successors  of  the  goodliest  company  of  gallant  knights  the 
w'orld  ever  heard  tell  of.  It  seems  unromantic  ; but  these  were 
not  the  romantic  Knights  of  St.  John.  The  heroic  days  of  the 
Order  ended  as  the  last  Turkish  galley  lifted  anchor  after  the 
memorable  siege.  The  present  stately  houses  were  built  in  times 
of  peace  and  splendor  and  deca3'.  I doubt  whether  the  Auberge 


FR0:\1  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


825 


de  Provence,  where  the  “ Union  Chib”  flourishes  now,  has  evei 
seen  anything  more  romantic  than  the  pleasant  balls  held  in  the 
great  room  there. 

The  Churcli  of  Saint  John,  not  a handsome  structure  with- 
out, is  magnificent  within  : a noble  hall  covered  with  a rich  em- 
broideiy  of  gilded  jO'arving,  the  chapels  of  the  dilferent  nations 
on  either  side,  but  not  interfering  with  the  main  structure,  of 
which  the  whole  is  siiii[)le,  and  the  details  only  splendid  ; it 
seemed  to  me  a fitting  jilace  for  this  wealthy  liody  of  aristocratic 
soldiers,  who  made  their  devotions  as  it  were  on  parade,  and, 
though  on  their  knees,  never  forgot  their  epaulets  or  their 
(]u  irters  of  nobility.  This  mixture  of  religion  and  worldl}’  pride 
sejins  incongruous  at  first ; but  have  we  not  at  church  at  home 
similar  relics  of  feudal  ceremou}^?  — the  verger  with  the  silver 
mace  who  precedes  the  vicar  to  the  desk  ; the  two  chaplains  of 
m3’  lord  archbishop,  whio  bow  over  his  grace  as  he  enters  the 
communion-table  gate  ; even  poor  John,  who  follow^s  m3’  lady 
with  a coroneted  prayer-book,  and  makes  his  conge  as  he  hands 
it  into  the  })ew.  What  a chivalrous  absurdity  is  the  banner  of 
some  high  and  mighty  prince,  hanging  over  his  stall  in  Windsor 
Chapel,  wdien  you  think  of  the  purpose  for  which  men  are  sup- 
])osed  to  assemble  there  ! The  Church  of  the  Knights  of  8t. 
John  is  paved  over  with  s[)rawling  heraldic  devices  of  the  dead 
gentlemen  of  the  dead  Order;  as  if,  in  the  next  world,  they 
expected  to  take  rank  in  conformity  with  thiur  pedigrees,  and 
w^ould  be  marshalled  into  heaven  according  to  the  orders  of  pre- 
cedence. Cumbrous  handsome  [laintings  adorn  the  walls  and 
chapels,  decorated  with  pompous  monuments  of  Gi'and  Masters. 
Beneath  is  a crypt,  where  more  of  these  honoral)le  and  reverend 
warriors  lie,  in  a state  that  a Simpson  would  admire.  In  the 
altar  are  said  to  lie  three  of  the  most  gallant  relics  in  the  world  : 
the  ke3’S  of  Acre,  Rhodes,  and  Jerusalem.  What  blood  was 
shed  in  defending  these  emblems ! What  fiiith,  endurance, 
genius,  and  generositv  ; what  pride,  hatred,  ambition,  and  sav- 
age lust  of  blood  were  roused  together  for  their  guardianship  ! 

In  the  lofty  halls  and  corridors  of  the  Governor’s  house, 
some  portraits  of  the  late  Grand  Masters  still  remain  : a very 
fine  one,  by  Caravaggio,  of  a knight  in  gilt  armor,  hangs  in  the 
dining-room,  near  a full-length  of  poor  Louis  XVI.,  in  royal 
robes,  the  veiy  picture  of  nneas3’  impotenc3’.  But  the  portrait 
of  De  Vignacourt  is  the  011I3’  one  which  has  a respectable  air  ; 
the  other  chiefs  of  the  famous  societ3^  are  pompous  old  gentle- 
men in  black,  with  huge  periwigs,  and  crowns  round  their  hats, 
and  a couple  of  melancholy  pages  in  3’ellow  and  red.  But  pages 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


,^2f) 

and  wigs  and  Grand  ]\Iasters  have  almost  faded  out  of  the 
canvas,  and  are  vanishing  into  Hades  with  a most  melancholy 
indistinctness.  The  names  of  most  of  these  gentlemen,  how- 
ever, live  as  yet  in  the  forts  of  the  place,  which  all  -seem  to 
have  ])een  eager  to  build  and  christen  : so  that  it  seems  as  if,  in 
the  Malta  npythology,  they  had  been  turned  into  freestone. 

In  the  armory  is  the  very  suit  painted  % Caravaggio,  by 
the  side  of  the  armor  of  the  noble  old  La  Valette,  whose  heroism 
saved  his  island  from  the  efforts  of  Mustapha  and  Dragut,  and 
an  army  quite  as  fierce  and  numerous  as  that  which  was  baffled 
before  Gibraltar,  b}^  similar  courage  and  resolution.  The 
sword  of  the  last-named  famous  corsair  (a  most  truculent  little 
scimitar),  thousands  of  pipes  and  halberts,  little  old  cannons 
and  wall-pieces,  helmets  and  cuirasses,  which  the  knights  or 
their  people  wore,  are  trimly  arranged  against  the  wall,  and, 
instead  of  spiking  Turks  or  arming  warriors,  now  serve  to  point 
morals  and  adorn  tales.  And  here  likewise  are  kept  man}^ 
thousand  muskets,  swords,  and  boarding-pikes  for  dailj^  use, 
and  a couple  of  ragged  old  standards  of  one  of  the  English 
regiments,  who  pursued  and  conquered  in  Egypt  the  remains 
of  the  haughty  and  famous  French  Republican  arm}',  at  whose 
appearance  the  last  knights  of  Malta  flung  open  the  gates  of  all 
their  fortresses,  and  consented  to  be  extinguished  without  so' 
much  as  a remonstrance,  or  a kick,  or  a sti'uggle. 

We  took  a drive  into  what  may  be  called  the  country  ; where 
the  fields  are  rocks,  and  the  hedges  are  stones  — passing  by 
the  stone  gardens  of  the  Florian,  and  wondering  at  the  number 
and  handsomeness  of  the  stone  villages  and  churches  rising 
everywhere  among  the  stony  hills.  Handsome  villas  were 
passed  everywhei’e,  and  we  drove  for  a long  distance  along  the 
sides  of  an  aqueduct,  quite  a royal  work  of  the  Caravaggio  in 
gold  armor,  tlie  Grand  Master  De  Vignacourt.  A most  agree- 
able contrast  to  the  arid  roclcs  of  the  general  scenery  was  the 
garden  at  tlie  Governor’s  country-house  ; with  the  orange-trees 
and  water,  its  beautiful  golden  grapes,  luxuriant  flowers,  and 
thick  cool  shrubberies.  The  eye  longs  for  this  sort  of  refresli- 
ment,  after  being  seared  with  the  hot  glare  of  the  general 
country  ; and  St.  Antonio  was  as  pleasant  after  Malta  as  Malta 
was  after  the  sea. 

We  paid  the  island  a subsequent  visit  in  November,  passing 
seventeen  days  at  an  establishment  called  Fort  Manuel  there, 
and  by  punsters  the  IManuel  des  Voyageurs  ; where  Govern- 
ment accommodates  you  with  quarters  ; where  tlie  authorities 
are  so  attentive  as  to  scent  your  letters  with  aromatic  vinegar 


FROM  CORNillLL  TO  CAIRO. 


327 


before  you  reeeive  them,  and  so  earefiil  of  your  health  as  to 
loek  you  up  iu  your  room  every  night  lest  you  sliould  walk  in 
your  sleep,  and  so  over  the  battlements  into  the  sea : if  3^11 
esea[)ed  drowning  in  the  sea,  the  sentries  on  the  opposite  shore 
would  lire  at  3 011,  lienee  the  nature  of  tlie  preeantion.  To  drop, 
however,  this  satirical  strain  : those  who  know  what  quarantine 
is,  imiy  fancy  that  the  [ilace  somehow  liccomes  unbearable  in 
wliich  it  has  been  endured.  And  though  tlie  November  climate 
of  Malta  is  like  the  most  delicious  May  in  England,  and  though 
tliere  is  eveiy  gayety  and  amusement  in  the  town,  a comfortable 
little  opera,  a good  old  library  tilled  full  of  good  old  books 
(none  of  your  works  of  modern  science,  travel,  and  histoiy,  but 
good  old  useless  books  of  the  last  two  centuries),  and  nobod v 
do  trouble  yon  in  reading  them,  and  though  the  societ3’  of 
Valetta  is  most  hospitalile,  varied,  and  agreeable,  3^et  somehow 
one  did  not  feel  safe  in  the  island,  with  perpetual  glimpses  of 
Fort  Alanucl  from  tlie  opposite  shore  ; and,  lest  the  quarantine 
authorities  should  have  a faiKy  to  fetch  one  back  again,  on  a 
pretext  of  posthumous  plague,  we  made  our  way  to  Naples  bv 
the  very  first  oiiportnnity  — those  who  remained,  that  is,  of  the 
little  Eastern  expedition.  The3’  were  not  all  thei-e.  The  Giver 
of  life  and  death  had  removed  two  of  onr  company  : one  was 
left  behind  to  die  in  Egypt,  with  a mother  to  bewail  his  loss ; 
another  we  buried  in  the  dismal  lazaretto  cemeteiy. 

One  is  bound  to  look  at  this,  too,  as  a part  of  our  journey. 
Disease  and  death  are  knocking  perhaps  at  your  next  cabin 
door.  Your  kind  and  cheery  companion  has  ridden  his  last 
ride  and  emptied  his  last  glass  beside  you.  And  while  fond 
hearts  are  yearning  for  him  far  awa3%  and  his  own  mind,  if  con- 
scious, is  turning  eagerly  towards  the  spot  of  the  world  whither 
affection  or  interest  calls  it  — the  Great  Father  summons  the 
anxious  spirit  from  earth  to  himself,  and  ordains  that  the 
nearest  and  dearest  shall  meet  here  no  more. 

Snell  an  occurrence  as  a death  in  a lazaretto,  mere  selfish- 
ness renders  striking.  We  were  walking  with  him  but  two  da3's 
ago  on  deck.  One  has  a sketch  of  him,  another  his  card,  with 
the  address  written  yesterdav,  and  given  with  an  invitation  to 
come  and  see  him  at  home  in  the  country,  where  his  children 
are  looking  for  him.  He  is  dead  in  a day,  and  buried  in  the 
walls  of  the  prison.  A doctor  felt  his  pulse  by  deput3^  — a 
clergyman  comes  from  the  town  to  read  the  last  service  over 
him  — and  the  friends,  who  attend  his  funeral,  are  marshalled 
by  lazaretto-guardians,  so  as  not  to  touch  eacLi  other,  Every 


328 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


man  goes  back  to  his  room  and  applies  the  lesson  to  himselt 
One  would  not  so  depart  without  seeing  again  the  dear,  dear 
faces.  We  reckon  up  those  we  love:  they  are  but  very  few, 
but  I think  one  loves  them  better  than  ever  now.  Should  it  be 
your  turn  next?  — and  wh}^  not?  Is  it  pit}"  or  comfort  to  think 
of  that  affection  which  watches  and  survives  you  ? 

The  Maker  has  linked  together  the  whole  race  of  man  with 
this  chain  of  love.  I like  to  think  that  there  is  no  man  but  has 
had  kindly  feelings  for  some  other,  and  he  for  his  neighbor, 
until  we  bind  together  the  whole  family  of  Adam.  Nor  does  it 
end  here.  It  joins  heaven  and  earth  together.  For  my  friend 
or  m}"  child  of  past  da}^s  is  still  m}^  friend  or  my  child  to  me 
here,  or  in  the  home  prepared  for  us  by  the  Father  of  all. 
If  identity  survives  the  grave,  as  our  faith  tells  us,  is  it  not  a 
consolation  to  think  that  there  may  be  one  or  two  souls  amon0 
the  purified  and  just,  whose  affection  watches  us  invisible,  an# 
follows  the  poor  sinner  on  earth? 


CHAPTER  V. 

ATHENS. 

Not  feeling  any  enthusiasm  mj-self  about  Athens,  my 
bounden  duty  of  course  is  clear,  to  sneer  and  laugh  heartily  at 
all  who  have.  In  fact,  what  business  has  a lawyer,  who  was 
in  Pump  Court  this  da}^  three  weeks,  and  whose  common  read- 
ing is  law  reports  or  the  newspaper,  to  i)retend  to  fall  in  love 
for  the  long  vacation  with  mere  poetry,  of  which  I swear  a great 
(leal  is  very  doubtful,  and  to  get  up  an  enthusiasm  quite  foreign 
to  his  nature  and  usual  calling  in  life?  What  call  have  ladies 
to  consider  Greece  ‘•‘romantic,”  they  who  get  their  notions  of 
mytholog}^  from  the  well-known  pages  of  “ Tooke’s  Pantheon?” 
'Wiiat  is  the  reason  that  blundering  Yorkshire  squires,  young 
dandies  from  Corfu  regiments,  jolly  sailors  from  ships  in  the  ^ 
liarbor,  and  yellow  old  Indians  returning  from  Bundelcund, 
should  think  proper  to  be  enthusiastic  about  a country  of  which 
they  know  nothing ; the  mere  phj'sical  beauty  of  which  they 
cannot,  for  the  most  part,  comprehend  ; and  because  certain 
characters  lived  in  it  two  thousand  four  hundred  years  ago? 
What  have  these  people  in  common  with  Feiioles,  what  havQ 


FROM  CORNU  ILL  TO  CAIRO. 


329 


these  ladies  in  common  with  Aspasia  (O  fie)  ? Of  the  race  of 
Fhiglishmen  who  come  wondering  about  the  tomb  of  Socrates, 
do  3’ou  think  the  majorit}'  would  not  liave  voted  to  hemlock 
him?  Yes  : for  the  verj^  same  su[)erstition  which  leads  men  by 
the  nose  now,  drove  them  onward  in  the  days  when  the  lowly 
husband  of  Xantippe  died  for  daring  to  think  sini[)ly  and  to 
speak  the  truth.  I know  of  no  quality  more  magnificent  in  fools 
than  their  faith  : that  perfect  consciousness  the}'  have,  that  they 
are  doing  virtuous  and  meritorious  actions,  when  the}"  are  per- 
forming acts  of  folly,  murdering  Socrates,  or  pelting  Aristides 
with  holy  oyster-shells,  all  for  Virtue’s  sake;  and  a “History 
of  Dulness  in  all  Ages  of  the  World,”  is  a book  which  a phi- 
losopher would  surely  be  hanged,  but  as  certainly  blessed,  foi 
writing. 

If  papa  and  mamma  (honor  be  to  them!)  had  not  followed 
the  faith  of  their  fathers,  and  thought  proper  to  send  away  their 
only  beloved  son  (afterwards  to  be  celel)rated  under  the  name 
of  Titmarsh)  into  ten  years’  banishment  of  infernal  misery, 
tyranny,  annoyance  ; to  give  over  the  fresh  feelings  of  the 
heart  of  the  little  Michael  Angelo  to  the  discipline  of  vulgar 
bullies,  who,  in  order  to  lead  tender  young  children  to  the 
Temple  of  Learning  (as  they  do  in  the  spelling-books),  drive 
them  on  with  clenched  fists  and  low  abuse  ; if  they  fainted, 
revived  them  with  a thump,  or  assailed  them  with  a curse ; if 
they  were  miserable,  consoled  them  with  a brutal  jeer,  — if,  1 
say,  my  dear  parents,  instead  of  giving  me  the  inestimable 
benefit  of  a ten  years’  classical  education,  had  kept  me  at  home 
with  my  dear  thirteen  sisters,  it  is  probable  I should  have  liked 
this  country  of  Attica,  in  sight  of  the  blue  shores  of  which  the 
present  pathetic  letter  is  written  ; but  I was  made  so  miserable 
in  youth  by  a classical  education,  that  all  connected  with  it  is 
disagreeable  in  my  e}'es  ; and  I have  the  same  recollection 
of  Greek  in  youth  that  I have  of  castor-oil. 

So  in  coming  in  sight  of  the  promontory  of  Sunium,  where 
the  Greek  muse,  in  an  awful  A"ision,  came  to  me,  and  said  in  a 
patronizing  way,  “Why,  my  dear,”  (she  always,  the  old  spin- 
ster, adopts  this  high  and  mighty  tone,) — “Why,  my  dear, 
are  you  not  charmed  to  be  in  this  famous  neighborhood,  in  this 
land  of  poets  and  heroes,  of  whose  history  your  classical  edu- 
cation ought  to  have  made  you  a master ; if  it  did  not,  you 
have  wofuily  neglected  your  opportunities,  and  your  dear  par- 
ents have  wasted  their  money  in  sending  you  to  school.  I 
replied : “ Madam,  your  company  in  youth  was  made  so  labo- 
riously disagreeable  to  me,  that  I can’t  at  present  reconcile 


330 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


myself  to  you  in  age.  I read  3^our  poets,  but  it  was  in  feai 
and  trembling ; and  a cold  sweat  is  but  an  ill  accompaniment 
to  poetiy.  1 blundered  through  3^our  histories  ; but  history  is 
so  dull  (saving  your  presence)  of  herself,  that  when  the  brutal 
dulness  of  a schoolmaster  is  superadded  to  her  own  slow  con- 
versation,  the  union  becomes  intolerable  : lienee  1 have  not  the 
slightest  pleasure  in  renewing  1113’  acquaintance  with  a lad3^  who 
lias  been  the  source  of  so  much  bodily  and  mental  discomfort 
to  me.”  To  make  a long  stoiT  short,  I am  anxious  to  apolo- 
gize for  a want  of  enthusiasm  in  the  classical  line,  and  to 
excuse  an  ignorance  which  is  of  the  most  undeniable  sort. 

This  is  an  improper  frame  of  mind  for  a person  visiting  the 
land  of  iEschylus  and  Euripides  ; add  to  which,  we  have  been 
abominably  overcharged  at  the  inn  : and  what  are  the  blue  hills 
of  Attica,  the  silver  calm  basin  of  Pirmus,  the  heathery  heights  of 
Pentelicus,  and  yonder  rocks  crowned  b3’  the  Doric  columns  of 
the  Parthenon,  and  the  thin  Ionic  shafts  of  the  Erechtheum, 
to  a man  who  has  had  little  rest,  and  is  bitten  all  over  133^  bugs? 
Was  Alcibiades  bitten  by  bugs,  I wonder;  and  did  the  brutes 
crawl  over  him  as  he  lay  in  the  rosy  arms  of  Phryne?  I wished 
all  night  for  Socrates’  hammock  or  basket,  as  it  is  described  in 
the ‘‘Clouds;”  in  which  resting-place,  no  doubt,  the  abomi- 
nable animals  kept  perforce  clear  of  him. 

A French  man-of-war,  lying  in  the  silvery  little  harbor, 
sternly  eying  out  of  its  stern  port-holes  a sauc3'  little  English 
corvette  l)eside,  began  playing  sounding  marches  as  a crowd  of 
boats  came  paddling  u[)  to  the  steamer’s  side  to  conve3'  us 
travellers  to  shore.  There  were  Russian  schooners  and  Greek 
brigs  lying  in  this  little  bay  ; dun-q)y  little  windmills  whirling 
round  on  the  sunburnt  heights  round  about  it ; an  improvised 
town  of  (plays  and  marine  taverns  has  sprung  up  on  the  shore ; 
a host  of  jingling  barouches,  more  miserable  than  aiy"  to  be 
seen  even  in  Germanv,  were  collected  at  the  landing-place ; 
void  the  Greek  drivers  (how  queer  they  looked  in  skull-caps, 
shably  jackets  with  profuse  embroidery  of  worsted,  and  end- 
less petticoats  of  dirty  calico!)  began,  in  a generous  ardor  for 
securing  jiassengers,  to  abuse  each  other’s  horses  and  carriages 
in  tlie  regular  London  fashion.  Satire  could  certainly  hardly 
caricature  the  vehicle  in  which  we  were  made  to  journey  to 
Athens  ; and  it  was  only  by  thinking  that,  bad  as  they  were, 
these  coaches  were  much  more  comfortable  contrivances  than 
any  Alcibiades  or  Cimon  ever  had,  that  we  consoled  ourselves 
along  the  road.  It  was  flat  for  six  miles  along  the  plain  to  the 
yity  : and  you  see  for  the  gi-iiatyr  part  of  the  way  the  purple 


¥ROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


331 


mount  on  which  the  Acropolis  rises,  and  the  gleaming  houses 
of  the  town  s[)read  beneath.  Round  this  wide,  yellow,  barren 
plain,  — a stunt  district  of  olive-trees  is  almost  the ‘only  vege- 
tation visible  — there  rises,  as  it  were,  a sort  of  cliorns  of  the 
most  beautiful  mountains  ; the  most  elegant,  gracious,  and 
noble  the  eye  ever  looked  on.  These  hills  did  not  appear  at  all 
lofty  or  terrible,  but  superbly  rich  and  aristocratic.  The  clouds 
were  dancing  round  about  them ; }’ou  could  see  their  rosy, 
purple  shadows  sweeping  round  the  clear,  serene  summits  of 
the  hill.  To  call  a hill  aristocratic  seems  affected  or  absurd  ; 
but  the  difference  between  these  hills  and  the  others,  is  the 
difference  between  Newgate  Prison  and  the  “ Travellers’  Chil),” 
for  instanee : both  are  buildings;  but  the  one  stern,  dark,  and 
coarse  ; the  other  rich,  elegant,  and  festive.  A.t  least,  so  I 
thought.  With  such  a stateN  palace  as  munificent  Nature  had 
built  for  these  people,  what  could  they  be  theinselv^es  but  lordly, 
beautiful,  brilliant,  brave,  and  wise?  We  saw  four  Greeks  on 
donkeys  on  the  road  (which  is  a dust-whirlwind  where  it  is  not 
a puddle)  ; and  other  four  were  pla}’ing  with  a dirty  pack  of 
cards,  at  a barrack  that  English  poets  have  christened  the 
“ Half-way  House.”  Does  external  nature  and  beauty  in- 
fluence the  soul  to  good?  You  go  about  Warwickshire,  and 
fancy  that  from  merel}'  being  born  and  wandering  in  those 
sweet  sunii}^  plains  and  fresh  woodlands  Shakspeare  must  have 
drunk  in  a portion  of  that  frank,  artless  sense  of  beautyg,  which 
lies  about  his  works  like  a bloom  or  dew  ; but  a Coventry 
ribbon-maker,  or  a slang  Leamington  squire,  are  looking  on 
those  very  same  landscapes  too,  and  what  do  they  profit?  You 
theorize  about  the  influence  which  the  climate  and  appearance 
of  Attica  must  have  had  in  ennobling  those  Avho  w^ere  born 
there ; yonder  dirtjg  swindling,  ragged  blackguards,  lolling 
over  greasy  cards  three  hours  before  noon,  quai'relling  and 
shrieking,  armed  to  the  teeth  and  afraid  to  fight,  are  bred  out 
of  the  same  land  which  begot  the  philosophers  and  heroes. 
But  the  “ Half-wa}’  House”  is  past  b}^  this  time,  and  behold  ! 
we  are  in  the  capital  of  King  Otho. 

I swear  solemnly  that  I would  rather  have^two  hundred  a 
year  in  Fleet  Street,  than  be  King  of  the  Greeks,  with  Basileus 
written  before  my  name  round  their  beggarly  coin  ; with  the 
bother  of  perpetual  revolutions  in  my  huge  plaster-of-Paris 
palace,'  with  no  amusement  but  a drive  in  the  afternoon  over  a 
wretched  arid  countiy,  where  roads  are  not  made,  with  ambas- 
sadors (the  deuce  knows  v>^hy,  for  what  good  can  the  English, 
or  the  French,  or  the  Russian  party  get  out  of  such  a bankrupt 


332 


EASTERN  SKETCilES. 


alliance  as  tins?)  perpetnall}^  pulling  and  tugging  at  me,  away 
from  honest  Germany,  where  there  is  beer  and  sesthetic  con- 
A'ersation,  and  operas  at  a small  cost.  The  shabbiness  of  this 
place  actually  beats  Ireland,  and  that  is  a strong  word.  The 
palace  of  the  Basileus  is  an  enormous  edifice  of  plaster,  in 
a square  containing  six  houses,  three  donkeys,  no  roads,  no 
fountains  (except  in  the  picture  of  the  inn)  ; backwards  it 
seems  to  look  straight  to  the  mountain  — on  one  side  is  a 
beggarl}'  garden  — the  King  goes  out  to  drive  (revolutions 
permitting)  at  five  — some  four-and-tweuG  blackguards  saun- 
ter up  to  the  huge  sandhill  of  a terrace,  as  his  Majesty  passes 
by  in  a gilt  barouche  and  an  absurd  fancy  dress ; the  gilt 
barouche  goes  plunging  down  the  sandhills : the  two  dozen 
soldiers,  who  have  been  presenting  arms,  slouch  off  to  their 
quarters : the  vast  barrack  of  a palace  remains  entireK  white, 
ghastly,  and  lonel}^ : and,  save  the  braying  of  a donke}'  now 
and  then,  (which  long-eared  minstrels  are  more  active  and 
sonorous  in  Athens  than  in  anj’  place  I know,)  all  is  entirely^ 
silent  round  Basileus’s  palace.  How  could  people  who  knew 
Leopold  fancy  he  would  be  so  “jolly  green  ” as  to  take  such  a 
berth  ? It  was  only  a gobemouche  of  a Bavarian  that  could 
ever  have  been  induced  to  accept  it. 

I beseech  y^ou  to  believe  that  it  was  not  the  bill  and  the 
bugs  at  the  inn  which  induced  the  wi’iter  hereof  to  speak  so 
slightingly^  of  the  residence  of  Basileus.  These  evils  are  now 
cured  and  forgotten.  This  is  written  off  the  leaden  flats  and 
mounds  which  they  call  the  Troad.  It  is  stern  justice  alone 
which  pronounces  this  excruciating  sentence.  It  was  a farce 
to  make  this  place  into  a kingly^  capital ; and  I make  no 
manner  of  doubt  that  King  Otho,  the  very^  day^  he  can  get 
;iway  unperceived,  and  get  together  the  passage-moneys,  will 
he  off  for  dear  old  Deutschland,  Fatherland,  Beerland  ! 

I have  never  seen  a town  i;i  England  which  may  be  com- 
ypared  to  this  ; for  though  Herne  Bay^  is  a ruin  now,  moneys  was 
once  spent  upon  it  and  houses  built ; here,  beysond  a few  score 
of  mansions  comfortably  laid  out,  the  town  is  little  better  than 
a ricketys  agglomeration  of  larger  and  smaller  huts,  tricked  out 
here  and  there  with  the  most  absurd  cracked  ornaments  and 
cheap  attempts  at  elegance.  But  neatness  is  the  elegance  of 
poverty,  and  these  people  despise  such  a homely'  ornament.  I 
have  got  a map  with  squares,  fountains,  theatres,  public  gar- 
dens, and  Places  d’Othon  marked  out ; but  they  only  exist 
in  the  paper  capital  — the  wretched  tumble-down  wooden  one 
boasts  of  none. 


FROM  COENIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


O O 
.>-JO 


One  is  obliged  to  come  back  to  the  old  disagreeable  com- 
parison of  Ireland.  Athens  ma}’  be  about  as  wealtli3^  a place 
as  Carlow  or  Killarne}’,  — the  streets  swarm  with  idle  crowds, 
the  imiumerable  little  lanes  tlow  over  with  dirt>'  little  children, 
thc_y  are  pla3'ing  and  puddling  about  in  the  dirt  eveiywhere, 
with  great  big  e^  es,  3adlow  faces,  and  the  queerest  little  gowns 
and  skull-caps.  Rut  in  the  outer  man,  the  Greek  has  far  the 
advantage  of  the  Irisliman  : most  of  them  are  well  and  decenll3' 
dressed  ( if  tive-and-twenpy  yards  of  petticoat  may  not  be  called 
decent,  what  may?)  they  swagger  to  and  fro  with  huge  knives 
in  their  girdles.  Almost  all  the  men  are  handsome,  but  live 
hard,  it  is  said,  in  order  to  decorate  their  backs  with  those  fine 
clothes  of  theirs.  1 have  seen  bu.t  two  or  three  handsome  wo- 
men, and  these  had  the  great  drawback  which  is  common  to 
the  race  — I mean,  a sallow,  greasy,  coarse  complexion,  at 
which  it  was  not  advisable  to  look  too  closeha 

And  on  this  score  1 think  we  English  mav  pride  ourselves 
on  possessing  an  advantage  (1)3’  we^  I mean  the  lovely  ladies  to 
whom  this  is  addressed  with  the  most  respectful  compliments) 
over  the  most  classical  countiy  in  the  world.  1 don’t  care  for 
beauty  which  will  only  bear  to  be  looked  at  from  a distance, 
like  a scene  in  a theati-e.  What  is  the  most  beautiful  nose  in 
the  world,  if  it  be  covered  with  a skin  of  the  texture  and  color 
of  coarse  whity-brown  paper;  and  if  Nature  has  made  it  as 
slippeiy  and  shining  as  though  it  had  been  anointed  with 
pomatum?  They  ma3’  talk  about  beauty,  but  would  you  wear 
a flower  that  had  been  dipped  in  a grease-})ot?  No;  give  me 
a fresh,  dewy,  healtly’  rose  out  of  Somersetshire  ; not  one  of 
those  superb,  tawdry,  unwholesome  exotics,  which  are  only 
good  to  make  poems  about.  Lord  Byron  wrote  more  cant  of 
this  sort  than  any  poet  1 know  of.  Think  of  “the  peasant 
girls  with  dark  blue  e3’es  ” of  the  Rhine — the  brown-faced, 
tlat-nosed,  thick-lipped,  dirt3"  wenches  1 Think  of  “ filling  high 
a cup  of  Samian  wine  ; ” small  beer  is  nectar  compared  to  it, 
,and  Byron  himself  always  drank  gin.  That  man  never  wrote 
from  his  heart.  He  got  up  rapture  and  enthusiasm  with  an 
eye  to  the  public  ; but  this  is  dangerous  ground,  even  more 
dangerous  than  to  look  Athens  full  in  the  face,  and  say  that 
your  eyes  are  not  dazzled  by  its  beauty.  The  Great  Public 
admires  Greece  and  Bvron  ; the  public  knows  best.  Murray’s 
“ Guide-book  ” calls  the  latter  “ our  native  bard.”  Our  native 
bard  ! Mon  Dieu  I He  Shakspeare’s,  Milton’s,  Keats’s,  Scott’s 
native  bard  ! Well,  woe  be  to  the  man  who  denies  the  public 
gods ! 


334 


KASl'EllN  SKETCHES. 


The  truth  is,  then,  that  Athens  is  a disappointment;  and  I 
am  angry  that  it  should  be  so.  To  a skilled  antiquarian,  or  an 
enthusiastic  Greek  scholar,  the  feelings  created  a sight  of 
the  place  of  course  will  be  different;  but  3^011  who  would  be 
inspired  hy  it  must  undergo  a long  preparation  of  reading,  and 
possess,  too,  a particular  feeling ; both  of  which,  I suspect,  are 
uncommon  in  our  bus}"  commercial  newspaper-reading  country. 
Men  only  sa}'  they  are  enthusiastic  about  the  Greek  and  Roman 
authors  and  history,  because  it  is  considered  proper  and  respect- 
able. And  we  know^  how  gentlemen  in  Baker  Street  have  edi- 
tions of  the  classics  handsomely  bound  in  the  libraiy,  and  how 
they  use  them.  Of  course  the\"  don’t  retire  to  read  the  news- 
paper ; it  is  to  look  over  a favorite  ode  of  Pindar,  or  to  discuss 
an  obscure  passage  in  Athenmus  ! Of  course  countiy  magistrates 
and  Members  of  Parliament  are  always  studjing  Demosthenes 
and  Cicero  ; we  know  it  from  their  continual  habit  of  quoting, 
the  Latin  grammar  in  Parliament.  But  it  is  agreed  that  the 
classics  are  respectable  ; therefore  we  are  to  be  enthusiastic 
about  them.  Also  let  us  admit  that  Byron  is  to  be  held  up  as 
“ our  native  bard.” 

I am  not  so  entire  a heathen  as  to  be  insensible  to  the  beauty 
of  those  relics  of  Greek  art,  of  which  men  much  more  learned 
and  enthusiastic  have  written  such  piles  of  descriptions.  I 
thought  I could  recognize  the  towering  beauty  of  the  prodigious 
columns  of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter  ; and  admire  the  astonishing 
grace,  severit}",  elegance,  completeness  of  the  Parthenon.  The 
little  Temple  of  Victoiy,  wdth  its  fluted  Corinthian  shafts, 
blazed  under  the  sun  almost  as  fresh  as  it  must  have  appeared 
to  the  e}’es  of  its  founders  ; I sav\^  nothing  more  charming  and 
brilliant,  more  graceful,  festive,  and  aristocratic  than  this 
sumptuous  little  building.  The  Roman  remains  which  lie  in 
the  town  below  look  like  the  works  of  barbarians  beside  these 
perfect  structures.  They  jar  strangely  on  the  eye,  after  it  has 
been  accustoming  itself  to  perfect  harmony  and  proportions. 
If,  as  the  schoolmaster  tells  us,  the  Greek  writing  is  as  complete 
as  the  Greek  art ; if  an  ode  of  Pindar  is  as  glittering  and  pure 
as  the  Temple  of  Victoiy ; or  a discourse  of  Plato  as  polished 
and  calm  as  \"onder  mystical  portico  of  the  Erechtheum ; what 
treasures  of  the  senses  and  delights  of  the  imagination  have 
those  lost  to  whom  the  Greek  books  are  as  good  as  sealed ! 

And  3"et  one  meets  with  veiy  dull  first-class  men.  Genius 
won’t  transplant  from  one  brain  to  another,  or  is  ruined  in  the 
carriage,  like  fine  Burgundy.  Sir  Robert  Peel  and  Sir  John 
Hobhouse  are  both  good  scholars ; but  their  poetry  in  Parlia- 


FROM  CORNPllLL  TO  CAIRO.  335 

ment  does  not  strike  one  as  fine.  Muzzle,  the  schoolmaster, 
who  is  bullying  poor  trembling  little  boys,  was  a fine  scholar 
when  he  was  a sizar,  and  a ruffian  then  and  ever  since.  Where 
is  the  great  poet,  since  the  days  of  Milton,  who  has  improved 
the  natural  offshoots  of  his  brain  by  grafting  it  from  the  Athe- 
nian tree? 

I had  a volume  of  Tennyson  in  my  pocket,  which  somehow 
settled  that  question,  and  ended  the  querulous  dispute  between 
tne  and  Conscience,  under  the  shape  of  the  neglected  and  irri- 
gated Greek  muse,  v/hich  had  been  going  on  ever  since  I had 
commenced  my  walk  about  Athens.  The  old  spinster  saw  me 
vince  at  the  idea  of  the  author  of  Dora  and  Ulysses,  and  tried 
:o  follow  up  her  advantage  by  further  hints  of  time  lost,  and 
precious  opportunities  thrown  aw'ay.  “ You  might  have  writ- 
ten poems  like  them,”  said  she  ; “ or,  no,  not  like  them  perhaps, 
)ut  you  might  have  done  a neat  prize-poem,  and  pleased  3^our 
)apa  and  mamma.  You  might  have  translated  Jack  and  Gill 
nto  Greek  iambics,  and  been  a credit  to  your  college.”  I 
iurned  testily  aw^aj"  from  her.  Madam,”  sa}'s  I,  “ because  an 
^agle  houses  on  a mountain,  or  soars  to  the  sun,  don’t  you  be 
ingiy  with  a sparrow  that  perches  on  a garret- window,  or  twit- 
ers  on  a twig.  Leave  me  to  myself;  look,  my  beak  is  not 
iquiline  by  any  means.” 

And  so,  my  dear  friend,  3'ou  who  have  been  reading  this 
ast  page  in  wonder,  and  who,  instead  of  a description  of 
Vtliens,  have  been  accommodated  with  a lament  on  the  part  of 
he  writer,  that  he  was  idle  at  school,  and  does  not  know  Greek, 
xcuse  this  momentary  outbreak  of  egotistic  despondenc}^  To 
ay  truth,  dear  Jones,  when  one  walks  among  the  nests  of  the 
agles,  and  sees  the  prodigious  eggs  the_v  laid,  a certain  feeling 
►f  discomfiture  must  come  over  us  smaller  birds.  You  and  1 
;ould  not  invent  — it  even  stretches  our  minds  painfully  to  try 
uid  comprehend  part  of  the  beauty  of  the  Parthenon  — ever  so 
ittle  of  it,  — the  beauty  of  a single  column,  — a fragment  of  a 
►roken  shaft  lying  under  the  astonishing  blue  sky  there,  in  the 
aidst  of  that  unrivalled  landscape.  There  may  be  grander 
,spects  of  nature,  but  none  more  deliciously  beautiful.  The 
lills  rise  in  perfect  harmony,  and  fall  in  the  most  exquisite  ca- 
iences,  — the  sea  seems  brighter,  the  islands  more  purple,  the 
louds  more  light  and  rosy  tlian  elsewhere.  As  yon  look  up 
hrough  the  0})en  roof,  you  are  almost  oppressed  by  the  serene 
[epth  of  the  blue  overhead.  I.ook  even  at  the  fragments  of 
he  marble,  how'  soft  and  pure  it  is,  glittering,  and  white  like 
resh  snow!  ■ Yl  was  all  beautiful,”  it  seems  to  say;  ‘‘even 


336 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


the  hidden  parts  of  me  were  spotless,  precious,  and  fair*’ — . 
and  so,  musing  over  this  wonderful  scene,  perhaps  I get  some 
feeble  glimpse  or  idea  of  that  ancient  Greek  spirit  which  peo- 
pled it  with  sublime  races  of  heroes  and  gods  ;*  and  which  I 
never  could  get  out  of  a Greek  book,  — no,  not  though  Muzzle 
flung  it  at  my  head.  ^ 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SMYRNA FIRST  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST. 

I AM  glad  that  the  Turkish  part  of  Athens  was  extinct, 
so  that  I should  not  be  balked  of  the  pleasure  of  entering 
an  Eastern  town  by  an  introduction  to  any  garbled  or  in- 
complete specimen  of  one.  Smyrna  seems  to  me  the  most 
Eastern  of  all  I have  seen  ; as  Calais  will  probably  remain  to 
the  Englishman  the  most  French  town  in  the  world.  The 
jack-boots  of  the  postilions  don’t  seem  so  huge  elsewhere,  or 
the  tight  stockings  of  the  maid-servants  so  Gallic.  The 
churches  and  the  ramparts,  and  the  little  soldiers  on  them, 
remain  for  ever  impressed  upon  your  memoiy ; from  which 
larger  temples  and  buildings,  and  whole  armies  have  subse- 
quently disa[)peared : and  the  first  words  of  actual  French 
heard  spoken,  and  the  first  dinner  at  “ Quillacq’s,”  remain 
after  twenty  years  as  clear  as  on  the  first  day.  Dear  Jones, 
can’t  you  remember  the  exact  smack  of  the  white  hermitage, 
and  the  toothless  old  fellow  singing  “ Largo  al  factotum”  ? 

The  first  day  in  the  East  is  like  that.  After  that  there  is 
notliing.  The  wonder  is  gone,  and  the  thrill  of  that  deligiit- 
ful  shock,  which  so  sc'ldom  touches  the  nerves  of  plain  men 
of  the  world,  though  they  seek  for  it  everywhere.  One  such 
looked  out  at  Smyrna  from  our  steamer,  and  3’awncd  without 
the  least  excitement,  and  did  not  betray  the  slightest  emo- 
tion, as  boats  with  real  Turks  on  board  came  up  to  the  shi[). 
There  la}^  the  town  with  minarets  and  C3*presses,  domes  and 


* Saint  Paul,  speaking  from  the  Areopagus  and  rebuking  these  super- 
stitions away,  yet  s]ieaks  tenderly  to  the  people  before  him,  whose  devo- 
tions he  had"  marked  ; quotes  their  poets,  to  bring  them  to  think  of  the  God 
unknown,  whom  they  had  ignorant^  worshipped  ; and  says,  that  the  times 
of  this  ignorance  (lod  wh}ked  at,  but  that  now  it  was  time  to  repent.  No 
rebuke  can  surely  be  more  gentle  than  this  delivered  by  the  upright  Apos- 
tle 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


337 


castles  ; great  guns  were  firing  off,  and  the  blood-red  flag  of 
the  Sultan  flaring  over  the  fort  ever  since  sunrise  ; woods  and 
mountains  came  down  to  the  gulfs  edge,  and  as  3’ou  looked 
at  them  with  the  telescope,  there  pee[>ed  out  of  the  general 
mass  a score  of  pleasant  episodes  of  Eastern  life  — there 
wei'e  cottages  with  quaint  roofs  ; silent  cool  kiosks,  wkere  the 
chief  of  the  eunuchs  brings  down  the  ladies  of  the  harem. 
1 saw  llassan,  tlie  fisherman,  getting  his  nets  ; and  Ali  Baba 
going  off  with  his  donkey  to  the  great  forest  for  wood. 
Smith  looked  at  these  wonders  quite  unmoved ; and  I was 
surprised  at  his  a[)ath v : but  he  had  been  at  Smyrna  be- 
fore. A man  only  sees  the  miracle  once  ; thougli  you  yearn 
after  it  ever  so,  it  won’t  come  again.  I saw  nothing  of  Ali 
Baba  and  llassan  the  next  time  we  came  to  Smyrna,  and  had 
some  doubts  (recollecting  the  badness  of  the  inn)  about  land- 
ing at  all.  A person  who  wishes  to  understand  France  and 
the  East  should  come  in  a yacht  to  Calais  or  Smyrna,  land 
for  two  hours,  and  never  afterwards  go  back  again. 

But  those  two  hours  are  bevond  measure  deliglitful.  Some 
of  us  were  querulous  up  to  that  time,  and  doul)ted  of  the 
wisdom  of  making  the  voyage.  Lisbon,  we  owned,  was  a 
failure ; Athens  a dead  failure ; Malta  very  well,  but  not 
worth  the  trouble  and  sea-sickness  : in  fact,  Baden-Baden  or 
Devonshire  would  l)e  a better  move  than  this  ; when  Sm3U’na 
came,  and  rebuked  all  mutinous  Cocknej's  into  silence.  Some 
men  ma^"  read  this  who  are  in  want  of  a sensation.  If  they 
love  the  odd  and  picturesque,  if  they  loved  the  “Arabian 
Nights  ” in  their  3'outh,  let  them  book  themselves  on  board  one 
of  the  Peninsular  and  Oriental  vessels,  and  tiy  one  dip  into 
Constantinople  or  Snyuma.  Walk  into  the  bazaar,  and  the 
East  is  unveiled  to  you  ; how  often  and  often  have  3^011  tried 
to  fanc3"  this,  l3ing  out  on  a summer  holida3'  at  school ! It  is 
wonderful,  too,  how  /ike  it  is  ; you  ma3^  imagine  that  3'ou  have 
been  in  the  place  before,  you  seem  to  know  it  so  well ! 

The  beauty  of  that  poetiy  is,  to  me,  that  it  was  never  too 
handsome  ; there  is  no  fatigue  of  sublimit3^  about  it.  Shacabac 
and  the  little  Barber  pla3"  as  great  a part  in  it  as  the  heroes  ; 
there  are  no  uncomfortable  sensations  of  terror ; 3’ou  may  be 
familiar  with  the  great  Afreet,  who  was  going  to  execute  the 
travellers  for  killing  his  son  with  a date-stone.  Morgiana,  when 
she  kills  the  fort3"  robbers  with  boiling  oil,  does  not  seem  to 
hurt  them  in  the  least ; and  though  King  Schahriar  makes  a 
practice  of  cutting  off  his  wives’  heads,  3^et  3^ou  fancy  they 
have  got  them  on  again  in  some  of  the  back  rooms  of  the  pal- 

22 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


o o o 
OOO 

ace,  where  the}^  are  dancing  and  playing  on  dulcimers.  How 
fresh,  eas}g  good-natured,  is  all  this  ! How  delightful  is  that 
notion  of  the  pleasant  Eastern  people  about  knowledge,  where 
the  height  of  science  is  made  to  consist  in  the  answering  of 
I'iddles  ! and  all  the  mathematicians  and  magicians  bring  their 
great  beards  to  bear  on  a conundrum  ! 

When  I got  into  the  bazaar,  among  this  rac€ , somehow  I felt 
as  if  they  were  all  friends.  There  sat  the  merchants  in  their 
little  shops,  quiet  and  solemn,  but  with  friendly  looks.  There 
was  no  smoking,  it  was  the  Ramazan  ; no  eating,  the  fish  and 
meats  fizzing  in  the  enormous  pots  of  the  cook-shops  are  only 
for  the  Christians.  The  children  abounded  ; the  law  is  not  so 
stringent  upon  them,  and  manj"  wandering  merchants  were 
there  selling  figs  (in  the  name  of  the  Prophet,  doubtless),  for 
their  benefit,  and  elbowing  onwards  with  baskets  of  grapes  and 
cucumbers.  Countrymen  passed  bristling  over  with  arms,  each 
with  a huge  bellyful  of  pistols  and  daggers  in  his  girdle ; 
fierce,  but  not  the  least  dangerous.  Wild  swarthy  Arabs,  who 
had  come  in  with  the  caravans,  walked  solemnly  about,  very 
different  in  look  and  demeanor  from  the  sleek  inhabitants  of 
the  town.  Greeks  and  Jews  squatted  and  smoked,  their  shops 
tended  bj’  sallow-faced  boys,  with  large  eyes,  who  smiled  and 
welcomed  you  in  ; negroes  bustled  about  in  gaudy  colors  ; and 
women,  with  black  nose-bags  and  shuffling  yellow  slippers, 
chattered  and  bargained  at  the  doors  of  the  little  shops.  There 
was  the  rope  quarter  and  the  sweetmeat  quarter,  and  the  pipe 
bazaar,  and  the  arm  bazaar,  and  the  little  turned-up  shoe  quar- 
ter, and  the  shops  where  ready-made  jackets  and  pelisses  were 
swinging,  and  the  region  where,  under  the  ragged  awnings, 
regiments  of  tailors  were  at  work.  The  sun  peeps  through 
these  awnings  of  mat  or  canvas,  which  are  hung  over  the  nar- 
row lanes  of  the  bazaar,  and  ornaments  them  with  a thousand 
fi'caks  of  light  and  shadow.  Cogia  Hassan  Alhabbal’s  shop  is 
in  a blaze  of  light ; while  his  neighbor,  the  barber  and  coffee- 
house keeper,  has  his  premises,  his  low  seats  and  narghiles,  his 
queer  pots  and  basins,  in  the  shade.  The  cobblers  are  always 
good-natured  ; there  was  one,  who,  lam  sure,  has  been  revealed 
to  me  in  my  dreams,  in  a dirty  old  green  turban,  with  a pleas- 
ant wrinkled  face  like  an  apple,  twinkling  his  little  gray  C3’es 
as  he  held  them  up  to  talk  to  the  gossips,  and  smiling  under 
a delightful  old  gra_y  beard,  which  did  the  heart  good  to  see. 
A^ou  divine  the  conversation  between  him  and  the  cucumber- 
man,  as  the  Sultan  used  to  understand  the  language  of  birds. 
Are  any  of  those  cucumbers  stuffed  with  pearls,  and  is  that 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


339 


Armenian  with  the  blaek  square  tnrhan  liaroun  Airasehid  in 
disguise,  standing  3'onder  b}'  the  fountain  where  the  children 
are  drinking — the  gleaming  marble  fountain,  chequered  all 
over  with  light  and  shadow,  and  engraved  with  delicate  Ara^ 
besques  and  sentences  from  the  Koran  ? 

But  the  greatest  sensation  of  all  is  when  the  camels  come. 
Whole  strings  of  real  camels,  better  even  than  in  the  proces- 
sion of  Blue  Beard,  with  soft  rolling  e^’es  and  l)euded  necks, 
swa^dhg  fi'oin  one  side  of  the  bazaar  to  the  other  to  and  fro, 
and  treading  gingerl}’  with  their  great  feet.  ()  3'ou  taiiy  dreams 
of  boyhood  ! O 3*011  sweet  meditations  of  hall-holidays,  here 
3*ou  are  realized  for  half  an  hour!  The  genius  which  pre- 
sides over  youth  led  ns  to  do  a good  action  that  da,)*.  There 
was  a man  sitting  in  an  open  room,  ornamented  with  fine 
long-tailed  sentences  of  the  Koran  : some  in  red,  some  in  blue  ; 
some  written  diagonall3’  over  the  paper ; some  so  sluq^ed  as  to 
represent  ships,  dragons,  or  mvsterious  animals.  The  man 
squatted  on  a carpet  in  the  middle  of  this  room,  with  folded 
arms,  waggling  his  head  to  and  fro,  swaying  about,  and  sing- 
ing througli  his  nose  choice  phrases  from  the  sacred  work. 
But  from  the  room  above  came  a clear  noise  of  manv  little 
shouting  voices,  much  more  musical  than  that  of  Naso  in  the 
matted  parlor,  and  the  guide  told  us  it  was  a school,  so  we  went 
up  stairs  to  look. 

I declare,  on  my  conscience,  the  master  was  in  the  act  of 
bastinadoing  a little  mulatto  bo3* ; his  feet  were  in  a bar,  and 
the  brute  was  la3*ing  on  with  a cane ; so  we  witnessed  the 
howling  of  the  poor  boy,  and  the  confusion  of  the  brute  who 
was  administering  the  correction.  The  other  children  were 
made  to  shout,  I believe,  to  drown  the  noise  of  their  little 
comrade’s  howling ; but  the  punishment  was  instantly  discon- 
tinued as  our  hats  came  up  over  the  stairtrap,  and  the  bo3*  cast 
loose,  and  the  bamboo  huddled  into  a corner,  and  the  school- 
master stood  before  ns  abashed.  All  the  small  scholars  in  red 
caps,  and  the  little  girls  in  gaud3*  handkerchiefs,  turned  their 
big  wondering  dark  eyes  towards  us  ; and  the  caning  was  over 
for  that  time,  let  us  trust.  I don’t  envy  some  schoolmasters  in 
a future  state.  I pit3*  that  poor  little  blubbering  Mahometan  ; 
he  will  never  be  able  to  relish  the  “Arabian  Nights”  in  the 
original  all  his  life  long. 

From  this  scene  we  rushed  off  somewhat  discomposed  to 
make  a breakfast  off  red  mullets  and  grapes,  melons,  pome- 
granates, and  Smyrna  v/ine,  at  a dirty  little  comfortable  inn, 
to  which  we  were  recommended : and  from  the  windows  of 


340 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


which  we  had  a fine  cheerful  view  of  the  gulf  and  its  biis5f 
craft,  and  the  loungers  and  merchants  along  the  shore.  There 
were  camels  unloading  at  one  wharf,  and  piles  of  melons  much 
bigger  than  the  Gibraltar  cannon-balls  at  another.  It  was  the 
fig-season,  and  we  passed  through  several  alle3's  encumbered  with 
long  rows  of  fig-dressers,  children  and  women  for  the  most 
part,  who  were  packing  the  fruit  diligently  into  drums,  dipping 
them  in  salt-water  first,  and  spreading  them  neatG  over  with 
leaves  ; while  the  figs  and  leaves  are  drying,  large  white,  worms 
crawl  out  of  them,  and  swarm  over  the  decks  of  the  ships  which 
carry  them  to  Pwirope  and  to  England,  where  small  children  eat 
them  with  pleasure — mean  the  figs,  not  the  worms  — and 
where  they  are  still  served  at  wine-parties  at  the  Universities. 
When  fresh  they  are  not  better  than  elsewhere  ; but  the  melons 
are  of  admirable  flavor,  and  so  large,  that  Cinderella  might 
almost  be  accommodated  with  a coach  made  of  a big  one,  with- 
out any  very  great  distention  of  its  original  proportions. 

Our  guide,  an  accomplished  swindler,  demanded  two  dollars 
as  the  fee  for  entering  the  mosque,  which  others  of  our  party 
subsequently  saw  for  sixpence,  so  we  did  not  care  to  examine 
tliat  place  of  worship.  But  there  were  other  cheaper  sights, 
which  were  to  the  full  as  picturesque,  for  which  there  was  no 
call  to  pay  money,  or,  indeed,  for  a dajg  scarcely  to  move  at 
all.  I doubt  whether  a man  who  would  smoke  his  pipe  on  a 
bazaar  counter  all  day,  and  let  the  cit}'  flow  by  him,  would  not 
be  almost  as  well  employed  as  the  most  active  curiosity-hunter. 

To  be  sure  he  would  not  see  the  women.  Those  in  the 
bazaar  were  shabln’  people  for  the  most  part,  whose  black 
masks  nobody  would  feel  a curiosit}'  to  remove.  You  could 
see  no  more  of  their  figures  than  if  they  had  been  stuffed  in 
bolsters  ; and  even  their  feet  were  brought  to  a general  splay 
iiniformit}'  by  the  double  yellow  slippers  which  the  wives  of  true 
believers  wear.  But  it  is  in  the  Greek  and  Armenian  quarters 
and  among  those  poor  Christians  who  were  pulling  figs,  that 
you  see  the  beauties  ; and  a man  of  a generous  disposition  may 
lose  his  heart  half  a dozen  times  a day  in  Smyrna.  There  was 
the  pretty  maid  at  work  at  a tambour-frame  in  an  0[)en  i)orch, 
with  an  old  duenna  spinning  b}"  her  side,  and  a goat  tied  up  to 
the  railings  of  the  little  court-garden  ; there  was  the  nymph  who 
came  down  the  stair  with  tlie  ])itcher  on  her  head,  and  gazed 
with  great  calm  ej’es,  as  large  and  stately  as  Juno’s  ; there  was 
the  gentle  mother,  bending  over  a queer  cradle,  in  which  lay  a 
small  ciying  bundle  of  infiincy.  All  these  three  charmers  were 
seen  in  a single  street  in  the  Armenian  quarter,  where  the 


FROM  CORNlilLL  TO  CAIRO. 


341 


house-doors  are  all  open,  and  the  women  ol‘  the  families  sit 
under  the  arches  in  the  court.  There  was  tlie  fig-girl,  beautiful 
beyond  all  others,  with  an  immense  coil  of  deep  black  hair 
twisted  round  a head  of  which  Raphael  was  worthy  to  draw  the 
outline,  and  Titian  to  [)aint  the  coloi*.  1 wonder  the  Sultan  has 
not  swept  her  olf,  or  that  the  Persian  merchants,  who  come 
with  silks  and  sweetmeats,  have  not  kidnapped  her  for  the 
Shah  of  Tehran. 

We  went  to  see  tlie  Persian  merchants  at  their  khan,  and 
purchased  some  silks  there  from  a swarthy,  black-bearded  man, 
with  a conical  cap  of  lambswool.  Is  it  not  hard  to  think  that 
silks  bought  of  a man  in  a lambswool  cap,  in  a caravanserai, 
brought  hither  on  the  backs  of  camels,  should  have  been  manu- 
factured after  all  at  Lyons  ? Others  of  our  party  bought  carpets, 
for  which  the  town  is  lamous  ; and  there  was  one  who  absolutely 
laid  in  a stock  of  real  Smyrna  figs  ; and  purchased  three  or  four 
real  Sm3’rna  sponges  for  his  carriage  ; so  strong  was  his  passion 
for  the  genuine  article. 

I wonder  that  no  painter  has  given  us  familiar  views  of  the 
Flast : not  processions,  grand  sultans,  or  magnilicent  landscapes  ; 
but  faithful  transcripts  of  eveiy-da}'  Oriental  life,  such  as  each 
street  will  suppl}^  to  him.  The  camels  afford  endless  motives, 
couched  in  the  market-places,  lying  by  thousands  in  the  camel 
square,  saiorting  and  bubbling  after  their  manner,  the  sun  blaz- 
ing down  on  their  backs,  their  slaves  and  keepers  Ring  behind 
them  in  the  shade:  and  the  Caravan  Bridge,  above  all,  would 
afford  a iiainter  subjects  for  a dozen  of  pictures.  Over  this 
Roman  arch,  which  crosses  the  IMeles  river,  all  the  caravans 
pass  on  their  entrance  to  the  town.  On  one  side,  as  we  sat  and 
looked  at  it,  was  a great  row  of  plane-trees  ; on  the  opposite 
bank,  a dee})  wood  of  tall  cvpresses  — in  the  midst  of  which 
rose  up  innumerable  grav  tombs,  surmounted  with  the  turbans 
of  the  defunct  believers.  Beside  the  stream,  the  view  was  less 
gloomy.  There  was  under  the  plane-trees  a little  coffee-house, 
shaded  by  a trellis-work,  covered  over  with  a vine,  and  orna- 
mented with  many  rows  of  shining  pots  and  water-pipes,  for 
which  there  was  no  use  at  noonda}'  now,  in  the  time  of  Rama- 
zan. Hard  bv  the  coffee-house  was  a garden  and  a bubbling 
marble  fountain,  and  over  the  stream  was  a broken  summer- 
house, to  which  amateurs  may  ascend,  for  the  purpose  of  exam- 
ining the  river ; and  all  round  the  plane-trees  plenty  of  stools 
for  tiiose  who  were  inclined  to  sit  and  drink  sweet  thick  coffee, 
or  cool  lemonade  made  of  fresh  green  citrons.  The  master  of 
the  house,  dressed  in  n white  turban  and  light  blue  pelisse, 


342 


EASTERi^  SKETCHES. 


lolled  under  the  coffee-house  awning ; the  slave  in  white  with  a 
crimson  striped  jacket,  his  face  as  black  as  ebony,  brought  us 
pipes  and  lemonade  again,  and  returned  to  his  station  at  the 
coffee-house,  where  he  curled  his  black  legs  together,  and  began 
singing  out  of  his  flat  nose  to  the  thrumming  of  a long  guitar 
with  wire  strings.  The  instrument  was  not  bigger  than  a soup- 
ladle,  with  a long  straight  handle,  but  its  music  pleased  the 
performer ; for  his  e}'es  rolled  shining  about,  and  his  head 
wagged,  and  he  grinned  wilA  'Jbi-  hrnocent  intensity  of  enjo}'- 
ment  that  did  one  good  to  look  at.  there  was  a friend  to 

share  his  pleasure  : a Turk  dressed  in  sea. lot.  and  covered  all 
over  with  daggers  and  pistols,  sat  leaning  lorwaod  on  his  little 
stool,  rocking  about,  and  grinning  quite  as  eageny  ao  the  black 
minstrel.  As  he  sang  and  we  listened,  figures  of  won'o:  bear- 
ing pitchers  went  passing  over  the  Roman  bridge,  which  we  saw 
between  the  large  trunks  of  the  planes  ; or  gray  forms  of  camels 
were  seen  stalking  across  it,  tiie  string  preceded  by  the  little 
donkey,  who  is  alwa3’S  here  their  long-eared  conductor. 

Tliese  are  veiy  humble  incidents  of  travel.  Wherever  the 
steamboat  touches  the  shore  adventure  retreats  into  the  interior, 
and  what  is  called  romance  vanishes.  It  won’t  bear  the  vulgar 
gaze  ; or  rather  the  light  of  common  day  puts  it  out,  and  it  is 
only  in  the  dark  that  it  shines  at  all.  There  is  no  cursing  and 
insulting  of  Giaours  now.  If  a C'ockne}'  looks  or  behaves  in  a 
particularly  ridiculous  way,  the  little  Turks  come  out  and  laugh 
at  him.  A Londoner  is  no  longer  a si)ittoon  for  true  believers : 
and  now  that  dark  llassan  sits  in  his  divan  and  drinks  cham- 
l)agne,  and  Selim  has  a French  watch,  and  Zuleika  perhaps 
takes  Morrison’s  pills,  Byronism  becomes  absurd  instead  of 
sublime,  and  is  only  a foolish  expression  of  Cockney  wonder. 
They  still  occasionally  beat  a man  for  going  into  a mosque, 
but  this  is  almost  the  only  sign  of  ferocious  vitalit3'  left  in  the 
Turk  of  the  Mediterranean  coast,  and  strangers  may  enter 
scores  of  mosques  without  molestation.  The  paddle-wheel  is 
the  great  conqueror.  Wherever  the  captain  cries  “ Stop  her ! ” 
Civilization  stops,  and  lands  in  the  ship’s  boat,  and  makes  a 
permanent  acquaintance  with  the  savages  on  shore.  Whole 
hosts  of  crusaders  have  passed  and  died,  and  butchered  here  in 
vain.  But  to  manufacture  European  iron  into  pikes  and  helmets 
was  a waste  of  metal : in  the  shape  of  piston-i’ods  and  furnace- 
pokers  it  is  irresistible  ; and  1 think  an  allegory  might  be  made 
showing  how  much  stronger  commerce  is  than  chivaliy,  and 
finishing  with  a grand  image  of  IMahomet’s  crescent  being  ex- 
tinguished in  Fulton’s  boiler. 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO 


343 


This  I thought  was  the  moral  of  the  day’s  sights  and  ad- 
ventures. We  pulled  off  to  the  steamer  iu  the  afternoon  — the 
Inbat  blowing  fresh,  and  setting  all  the  craft  in  the  gulf  dancing 
over  its  blue  waters.  We  were  presently  under  weigh  again, 
the  captain  ordering  his  engines  to  work  onl}^  at  half  power,  so 
that  a French  steamer  which  was  (juitting  Smyrna  at  the  same 
time  might  come  up  with  us,  and  fancy  slie  could  beat  the  irre- 
sistible “Tagus.”  Vain  hope!  Just  as  the  Frenchman  neared 
ns,  the  “Tagus”  shot  out  like  an  arrow,  and  the  discomfited 
Fh'enchman  went  behind.  Though  we  all  relished  the  joke  ex- 
ceeding!}', there  waas  a French  gentleman  on  board  who  did  not 
feem  to  be  hy  an}'  means  tickled  with  it ; but  he  had  received 
papers  at  Smyrna,  containing  news  of  Mai'shal  Ihigeaud’s  vic- 
tory at  Isley,  and  had  this  land  victory  to  set  against  our  harm- 
less little  triumph  at  sea. 

That  night  we  rounded  tlie  Island  of  Mitylene  : and  the  next 
day  the  coast  of  Troy  was  in  sight,  and  the  tomb  of  Achilles  — 
a dismal-looking  mound  that  rises  in  a low,  dreary,  barren 
shore  — less  lively  and  not  more  picturesque  than  the  Scheldt 
or  the  mouth  of  the  Thames.  Then  we  passed  Tenedos  and  the 
forts  and  town  at  the  mouth  of  the  Dardanelles.  The  w^eather 
W'as  not  too  hot,  the  water  as  smooth  as  at  Putney,  and  every- 
body happy  and  excited  at  the  thouglit  of  seeing  Constanti- 
nople to-morrow.  We  had  music  on  board  all  the  way  from 
Smyrna.  A German  commis-voyageur,  with  a guitar,  who  had 
passed  unnoticed  until  that  time,  produced  his  instrument  about 
mid-day,  and  began  to  whistle  waltzes.  He  whistled  so  divinely 
that  the  ladies  left  their  cabins,  and  men  laid  down  their  books. 
He  whistled  a polka  so  bew'itchingly  that  two  young  Oxford 
men  began  whirling  round  the  deck,  and  [)erformed  that  popular 
dance  with  much  agility  until  they  sank  down  tired.  He  still 
continued  an  unabated  whistling,  and  as  nobody  w'ould  dance, 
pulled  off  his  coat,  produced  a pair  of  castanets,  and  whistling 
a mazurka,  performed  it  w'ith  tremendous  agility.  ITis  whistling 
made  everybody  gay  and  happy  — made  those  acquainted  who 
had  not  spoken  before,  and  inspired  such  a feeling  of  hilarity  in 
the  ship,  that  that  night,  as  we  floated  over  the  sea  of  Marmora, 
a general  vote  was  expressed  for  broiled  bones  and  a regular 
supper-party.  Punch  was  brewed,  and  speeches  were  made, 
and  after  a lapse  of  fifteen  years,  I heard  the  “Old  English 
Gentleman”  and  “Bright  Chanticleer  Proclaims  the  Morn,” 
sung  in  such  style  that  you  would  almost  fancy  the  proctors 
must  hear,  and  send  us  all  home. 


3M 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CONSTANTINOPLE. 

When  we  rose  at  sunrise  to  see  the  famous  entry  to  Con' 
stantinople,  we  found,  in  the  place  of  the  city  and  the  sun,  a 
bright  white  fog,  which  hid  both  from  sight,  and  which  only 
disappeared  as  the  vessel  advanced  towards  the  Golden  Horn. 
There  the  fog  cleared  off  as  it  were  b}'  flakes,  as  you  see  gauze 
curtains  lifted  awa}’,  one  by  one,  before  a great  faiiy  scene  at 
the  theatre.  This  will  give  idea  enough  of  the  fog ; the  diffi- 
culty is  to  describe  the  scene  afterwards,  which  was  in  truth  the 
great  fairy  scene,  than  which  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  any- 
thing more  brilliant  and  magnificent.  I can’t  go  to  any  more 
romantic  place  than  Drury  Lane  to  draw  m3"  similes  from  — 
Druiy  Lane,  such  as  we  used  to  see  it  in  our  3’outh,  when  to 
our  sight  the  grand  last  pictures  of  the  melodrama  or  pantomime 
were  as  magnificent  as  any  objects  of  nature  we  have  seen  with 
maturer  e}"es.  Well,  the  view  of  Constantinople  is  as  fine  as 
any  of  Stanfield’s  best  theatrical  pictures,  seen  at  the  best 
period  of  3"outh,  when  fanc}"  had  all  the  bloom  on  her — when 
all  the  heroines  who  danced  before  the  scene  appeared  as 
ravishing  beauties,  when  there  shone  an  unearthl3^  splendor 
about  Baker  and  Diddear  — and  the  sound  of  the  bugles 
and  fiddles,  and  the  cheerful  clang  of  the  cymbals,  as  the 
scene  unrolled,  and  the  gorgeous  procession  meandered  tri- 
umphantly through  it  — caused  a thrill  of  pleasure,  and  awak- 
ened an  innocent  fulness  of  sensual  enjo3"ment  that  is  only 
given  to  bo3"S. 

The  above  sentence  contains  the  following  propositions : — 
The  enjoyments  of  l)03'ish  fancy  are  the  most  intense  and  de- 
licious in  the  world.  Stanfield’s  panorama  used  to  be  the 
realization  of  the  most  intense  3"outhful  fanc}".  I puzzle  my 
brains  and  find  no  l)etter  likeness  for  the  place.  The  view  of 
Constantinople  resembles  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  a Stanfield  dio- 
rama, with  a glorious  accompaniment  of  music,  spangled 
houris,  warriors,  and  winding  processions,  feasting  the  eyes 
and  the  soul  with  light,  splendor,  and  harmon}".  If  3"ou  were 
never  in  this  way  during  your  youth  ravished  at  the  pla3"-house, 
of  course  the  whole  comparison  is  useless : and  3"ou  have  no 
idea,  from  this  deseription,  of  the  effect  which  Constantinople 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


345 


produces  on  the  milid.  But  if  }^ou  were  never  affected  a 
theatre,  no  words  can  work  upon  3^0111*  fancA",  and  t3’pographical 
attempts  to  move  it  are  of  no  use.  For,  suppose  we  combine 
mosque,  minaret,  gold,  cypress,  water,  blue,  caiques,  seventy- 
four,  Galata,  Tophana,  Ramazan,  Backallum,  and  so  forth,  to- 
gether, in  ever  so  man}’  wa3’s,  3’our  imagination  will  never  be 
able  to  depict  a city  out  of  them.  Or,  suj)pose  I sa}’  the 
Mosque  of  St.  Sophia  is  four  hundred  and  seventy-three  feet  in 
height,  measuring  from  the  middle  nail  of  the  gilt  crescent  sur- 
mounting the  dome  to  the  ring  in  the  centre  stone  ; the  circle 
of  the  dome  is  one  hundred  and  twenty-three  feet  in  diameter, 
the  windows  ninet3^-seven  in  number  — and  all  this  may  l)e 
true,  for  anything  I know  to  the  contrary : yet  who  is  to 
get  an  idea  of  St.  Sophia  from  dates,  proper  names,  and 
calculations  with  a measuring-line?  It  can’t  be  done  by 
giving  the  age  and  measurement  of  all  the  buildings  along 
the  river,  the  names  of  all  the  boatmen  who  ply  on  it.  Has 
your  fancy,  which  pooh-poohs  a simile,  faith  enough  to 
build  a city  with  a foot-rule?  Enough  said  about  descriptions 
and  similes  (though  whenever  I am  uncertain  of  one  1 am 
n a tu rail}’ most  anxious  to  fight  for  it)  : it  is  a scene  not  perhaps 
sublime,  but  charming,  magnificent,  and  cheerful  beyond  any  I 
have  ever  seen  — the  most  siqierb  combination  of  city  and  gar- 
dens, domes  and  shipping,  hills  and  water,  with  the  healthiest 
breeze  blowing  over  it,  and  above  it  the  brightest  and  most 
cheerful  sky. 

It  is  proper,  they  say,  to  be  disappointed  on  entering  the 
town,  or  any  of  the  various  quarters  of  it,  because  the  houses 
are  not  so  magnificent  on  inspection,  and  seen  singly  as  they  are 
when  beheld  en  masse  from  the  waters.  But  why  form  expecta- 
tions so  lofty?  If  you  see  a group  of  peasants  picturesquely 
disposed  at  a fair,  you  don’t  suppose  that  they  are  all  fault- 
less beauties,  or  that  the  men’s  coats  have  no  rags,  and  the 
women’s  gowns  are  made  of  silk  and  A^elvet : the  wild  ugliness 
of  the  interior  of  Constantinople  or  Pera  has  a charm  of  its 
own,  greatly  more  amusing  than  rows  of  red  bricks  or  drab 
stones,  however  symmetrical.  With  brick  or  stone  they  could 
never  form  those  fantastic  ornaments,  railings,  balconies,  roofs, 
galleries,  which  jut  in  and  out  of  the  rugged  houses  of  the  city. 
As  we  went  from  Galata  to  Pera  up  a steep  hill,  which  new- 
comers ascend  with  some  difficulty,  but  whicli  a poi’ter,  with  a 
couple  of  hundredweight  on  his  back,  paces  up  without  turning  a 
hair,  I thought  the  wooden  houses  far  from  being  disagreeable 


346 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


objects,  sights  quite  as  surprising  and  striking  as  the  grand  one 
we  had  just  left. 

I do  not  know  how  the  custom-house  of  his  Highness  is 
made  to  be  a profitable  speculation.  As  I left  the  ship,  a man 
pulled  after  my  boat,  and  asked  for  backsheesh,  which  was 
given  him  to  the  amount  of  about  twopence.  He  was  a cus- 
tom-house ofiicer,  but  I doubt  whether  this  sum  which  he  levied 
ever  went  to  the  revenue. 

I can  fancy  the  scene  about  the  quays  somewhat  to  resemble 
the  river  of  London  in  olden  times,  l>efore  coal-smoke  had  dark- 
ened the  whole  city  with  soot,  and  when,  according  to  the  old 
writers,  there  really  was  bright  weather.  The  fleets  of  caiques 
l)ustling  along  the  shore,  or  scudding  over  the  blue  water,  are 
beautiful  to  look  at : in  Hollar’s  print  London  river  is  so 
studded  over  with  wherry-boats,  which  bridges  and  steamers 
have  since  destroyed.  Here  the  caique  is  still  in  full  perfec- 
tion : there  are  thirty  thousand  boats  of  the  kind  plying  be- 
tween the  cities ; every  boat  is  neat,  and  trimly  carved  and 
])ainted ; and  I scarcely  saw  a man  pulling  in  one  of  them  that 
was  not  a tine  specimen  of  his  race,  brawny  and  brown,  with 
an  open  chest  and  a handsome  face.  They  wear  a thin  shirt 
of  exceedingly  light  cotton,  which  leaves  their  fine  brown 
limbs  full  play ; and  with  a purple  sea  for  a background, 
eveiy  one  of  tliese  dashing  boats  forms  a brilliant  and  glitter- 
ing picture.  Passengers  squat  in  the  inside  of  the  boat;  so 
tliat  as  it  passes  3'ou  see  little  more  than  the  heads  of  the  true 
believers,  with  their  red  fez  and  blue  tassel,  and  that  placid 
gravit}^  of  expression  which  the  sucking  of  a tobacco-pipe  is 
sure  to  give  to  a man. 

The  Bosphorus  is  enlivened  by  a multiplicitj'  of  other  kinds 
of  craft.  There  are  the  dirty  men-of-war’s  boats  of  the  Rus- 
sians, with  unwashed,  mangy  crews ; the  great  feriy-boats 
cariying  hundreds  of  passengers  to  the  villages  ; the  melon- 
boats  piled  up  with  enormous  golden  fruit ; his  Excellenc}^  the 
Pasha’s  boat,  with  twelve  men  bending  to  their  oars  ; and  his 
Highness’s  own  caique,  with  a head  like  a serpent,  and  eight- 
and-twent}'  tugging  oarsmen,  that  goes  shooting  by  amidst  the 
thundering  of  the  cannon.  Ships  and  steamers,  with  black 
sides  and  flaunting  colors,  are  moored  eveiywhere,  showing 
their  flags,  Russian  and  English,  Austrian,  American,  and 
Greek  ; and  along  the  qua3’s  country  ships  from  the  Black  Sea 
or  the  islands,  with  high  carved  poops  and  bows,  such  as  3'OU 
see  in  the  pictures  of  the  shipping  of  the  seventeenth  centuiy. 
The  vast  groves  and  towers,  domes  and  qua3's,  tall  minarets 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


347 


and  spired  spreading  mosques  of  the  three  cities,  rise  all 
around  in  endless  magnihcence  and  variety,  and  render  this 
water-street  a scene  of  such  delightful  liveliness  and  beauty, 
that  one  never  tires  of  looking  at  it.  I lost  a great  number  of 
the  sights  in  and  round  Constantinople  through  the  beauty  of 
this  admirable  scene:  but  what  arc  sights  after  all?  and  isn’t 
that  the  best  sight  which  makes  you  most  ha|)py? 

We  were  lodged  at  Pera  at  ‘‘Misseri’s  Hotel,”  the  host  of 
which  has  been  made  famous  ere  this  time  by  the  excellent 
book  ‘■H^^othen,”  — a work  for  which  all  the  passengers  on 
board  our  shi})  had  been  battling,  and  which  had  charmed  all 
— from  our  great  statesman,  our  polished  law^yer,  our  young 
Oxonian,  who  sighed  over  certain  passages  that  he  feared  were 
wdcked,  down  to  the  writer  of  this,  who,  after  perusing  it  with 
delight,  laid  it  down  w ith  w'onder,  exclaiming,  Aut  Diabolus 
aut  ” — a book  which  has  since  (greatest  miracle  of  all)  excited 
a feeling  of  Avarinth  and  admiration  in  the  bosom  of  the  godlike, 
impartial,  stony  Atheiujeum.  Misseri,  the  faithful  and  chival- 
rous Tartar,  is  transformed  into  the  most  quiet  and  gentleman- 
like of  landlords,  a great  deal  more  gentlemanlike  in  manner 
and  appearance  than  most  of  us  who  sat  at  his  table,  and 
smoked  cool  pipes  on  his  house-top,  as  w^c  looked  over  the  hill 
and  the  Russian  })alace  to  the  water,  and  the  Seraglio  gardens 
shining  in  the  blue.  We  conlTonted  IMisseri,  “Eothen”  in 
hand,  and  found,  on  examining  him,  that  it  was  “ aut  Diabo- 
lus aut  amicus  ” — but  the  name  is  a secret ; I will  never 
breathe  it,  though  I am  dying  to  tell  it. 

The  last  good  descri[)tion  of  a Turkish  bath,  I think,  was 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu’s  — wdiicli  voluptuous  picture 
must  have  been  painted  at  least  a hundred  and  thirty  3'ears 
ago : so  that  another  sketch  ma}^  be  attempted  b}"  a humbler 
artist  in  a diflerent  manner.  The  Turkish  bath  is  certainly  a 
novel  sensation  to  an  Englishman,  and  may  be  set  down  as  a 
most  queer  and  surprising  event  of  his  life.  I made  the  valet-, 
de-place  or  dragoman  ( it  is  rather  a fine  thing  to  have  a drago- 
man in  one’s  service)  conduct  me  forthwith  to  the  best  appointed 
liumminns  in  the  neighborhood  ; and  w^e  walked  to  a house  at 
Tophana,  and  into  a spacious  hall  lighted  from  above,  which  is 
the  cooling-room  of  the  bath. 

The  spacious  hall  has  a large  fountain  in  the  midst,  a 
painted  galleiy  running  round  it ; and  man}"  ropes  stretched 
from  one  gallery  to  another,  ornamented  with  profuse  draperies 
of  towels  and  blue  cloths,  for  the  use  of  the  frequenters  of  the 
place.  All  round  the  room  and  the  galleries  were  matted  in- 


348 


EASTERN  SivETCHES. 


closures,  fitted  with  numerous  neat  beds  and  cushions  for  re- 
posing on,  where  la3"  a dozen  of  true  believers  smoking,  or 
sleeping,  or  in  the  happ3^  half-dozing  state.  I was  led  up  to 
one  of  these  beds,  to  rather  a retired  corner,  in  consideration 
of  modesty  ; and  to  the  next  bed  presentl3^  came  a dancing 
dervish,  who  forthwith  began  to  prepare  for  the  bath. 

When  the  dancing  dervish  had  taken  off  his  3'ellow  sugar- 
loaf  cap,  his  gown,  shawl,  &c.,  he  was  arrayed  in  two  large 
blue  cloths  ; a white  one  being  thrown  over  his  shoulders,  and 
another  in  the  shape  of  a turban  plaited  neatly  round  his  head  ; 
the  garments  of  which  he  divested  himself  were  folded  up  in 
another  linen,  and  neatly  put  by.  I beg  leave  to  state  I was 
treated  in  precisely  the  same  manner  as  the  dancing  dervish. 

The  reverend  gentleman  then  put  on  a pair  of  wooden 
pattens,  which  elevated  him  about  six  inches  from  the  ground  ; 
and  walked  down  the  stairs,  and  paddled  across  the  moist 
marble  floor  of  the  hall,  and  in  at  a little  door,  b3'  the  which 
also  Titmarsh  entered.  But  I had  none  of  the  professional 
agility  of  the  dancing  dervish  ; I staggered  about  veij  ludi- 
crousl3*  upon  the  high  wooden  pattens  ; and  should  have  been 
down  on  m3^  nose  several  times,  had  not  the  dragoman  and  the 
master  of  the  bath  supported  me  down  stairs  and  across  the 
hall.  Dressed  in  three  large  cotton  napkins,  with  a white 
turban  round  my  head,  I thought  of  Pall  Mall  with  a sort  of 
despair.  I passed  the  little  door,  it  was  closed  behind  me  — I 
was  in  the  dark  — I couldn’t  speak  the  language  — in  a white 
turban.  Mon  Dien  ! what  was  going  to  happen  ! 

The  dark  room  was  the  tepidarium,  a moist  oozing  arched 
flen,  with  a light  faintl3^  streaming  from  an  orifice  in  the  domed 
ceiling.  Yells  of  frantic  laughter  and  song  came  booming  and 
clanging  through  the  echoing  arches,  the  doors  clapped  to  with 
loud  reverberations.  It  was  the  laughter  of  the  followers  of 
Mahbund,  rollicking  and  taking  their  pleasure  in  the  public 
bath.  I could  not  go  into  that  place : I swore  I would  not ; 
they  promised  me  a private  room,  and  the  dragoman  left  me. 
M3^  ugony  at  parting  from  that  Christian  cannot  be  described. 

When  3'ou  get  into  the  sudarinm,  or  hot  room,  3"our  first 
sensations  only  occur  about  half  a minute  after  entrance,  when 
vou  feel  that  you  are  choking.  I found  myself  in  that  state, 
sented  on  a marble  slab  ; the  bath  man  was  gone  ; he  had  taken 
away  the  cotton  turban  and  shoulder  shawl : I saw  I was  in  a 
mirrow  room  of  marble,  with  a vaulted  roof,  and  a fountain  of 
warm  and  cold  water  ; the  atmosphere  was  in  a steam,  the  chok- 
ing sensation  went  off,  and  I felt  a sort  of  [)leasure  presentl3'  in 


FROM  CORNIllLL  TO  CAIRO. 


349 


a soft  boiling  simmer,  wliicli,  no  doubt,  potatoes  feel  when  they 
are  steaming.  You  are  left  in  this  state  for  about  ten  minutes  ; 
it  is  warm  certainl}',  luit  odd  and  pleasant,  and  disposes  the 
mind  to  reverie. 

r>ut  let  an}'  delicate  mind  in  Baker  Street  fancy  my  horror, 
when,  on  looking  up  out  of  this  reverie,  I saw  a great  brown 
wretch  extended  before  me,  onl}^  half  dressed,  standing  on 
pattens,  and  exaggerated  by  them  and  the  steam  until  lie 
looked  like  an  ogre,  grinning  in  the  most  horrible  way,  and 
waving  his  arm,  on  which  was  a horsehair  glove.  lie  spoke, 
in  his  unknown  nasal  jargon,  words  which  echoed  through  the 
arched  room  ; his  eyes  seemed  astonishingly  large  and  bright, 
his  ears  stuck  out,  and  his  head  wars  all  shaved,  except  a bris- 
tling top-knot,  which  gave  it  a demoniac  herceness. 

This  description,  1 feel,  is  growing  too  frightful ; ladies  who 
read  it  will  be  going  into  hysterics,  or  sa3'ing,  “ Well,  upon  my 
word,  this  is  the  most  singular,  the  most  extraordinary  kind  of 
language.  Jane,  my  love,  you  will  not  read  that  odious  book  ” 
— and  so  I will  be  brief.  This  grinning  man  belabors  the 
patient  violently  with  the  horse  brusli.  When  he  has  com- 
pleted the  horse-hair  part,  and  you  lie  expiring  under  a squirt- 
ing fountain  of  v,arrm  water,  and  fancying  all  is  done,  he 
reappears  with  a large  brass  basin  containing  a quantity  of 
lather,  in  the  midst  of  which  is  something  like  old  Miss  Mac- 
Whirter’s  flaxen  wig  that  she  is  so  proud  of,  and  that  we  have 
all  laughed  at.  Just  as  you  are  going  to  remonstrate,  the 
thing  like  the  wig  is  dashed  into  your  face  and  eyes,  covered 
over  with  soap,  and  for  five  minutes  }'ou  are  drowned  in  lather : 
3’ou  can’t  see,  the  suds  are  frothing  over  3’our  e3'eballs  ; 3'ou 
can’t  hear,  the  soap  is  whizzing  into  3mur.ears;  can’t  gasp  for 
breath.  Miss  MacAYliirter’s  wig  is  down  your  throat  with  half 
a pailful  of  suds  in  an  instant  — vou  are  all  soap.  Wicked 
children  in  former  days  have  jeered  you,  exclaiming,  ‘‘  How 
are  you  olT  for  soap?”  ITou  little  knew  what  saponacit}^  was 
till  you  entered  a Turkish  bath. 

\Vhen  the  whole  operation  is  concluded,  3^11  are  led  — with 
what  heartfelt  jo}’  I need  not  say  — softly  back  to  the  cooling- 
room,  having  been  robed  in  shawls  and  turbans  as  before.  You 
are  laid  gentl}"  on  the  reposing  bed  ; somebodv  brings  a nar- 
ghile, which  tastes  as  tobacco  must  taste  in  Mahomet’s  Para- 
dise ; a cool  sweet'  dream}^  languor  takes  possession  of  the 
purified  frame  ; and  half  an  hour  of  such  delicious  laziness  is 
spent  over  the  pipe  as  is  unknown  in  Europe,  where  vulgar 
prejudice  has  most  shamefully  Jiialigned  indolence,  calls  it  foul 


350 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


names,  such  as  the  father  of  all  evil,  and  the  like  ; in  fact,  does 
not  know  how  to  educate  idleness  as  those  honest  Tui'ks  do,  and 
the  fruit,  which,  when  properlj^  cultivated,  it  bears. 

The  after-bath  state  is  the  most  delightful  condition  of  lazi- 
ness I ever  knew,  and  I tried  it  wherever  we  went  afterwards 
on  our  little  tour.  At  Smyrna  the  whole  business  was  much 
inferior  to  the  method  emplo3’ed  in  the  capital.  At  Cairo,  after 
the  soap,  3'ou  are  plunged  into  a sort  of  stone  coffin,  full  of 
water,  which  is  all  but  boiling.  This  has  its  charms  ; but  I 
could  not  relish  the  Egyptian  shampooing.  A hideous  old 
blind  man  (but  veiy  dexterous  in  his  art)  tried  to  break  my 
back  and  dislocate  my  shoulders,  but  I could  not  see  the  pleasure 
of  the  practice  ; and  another  fellow  began  tickling  the  soles  of 
my  feet,  but  I rewarded  him  with  a kick  that  sent  him  ofl'  the 
bench.  The  pure  idleness  is  the  best,  and  I shall  never  enjoy 
such  in  Europe  again. 

Victor  Hugo,  in  his  famous  travels  on  the  Rhine,  visiting 
Cologne,  gives  a learned  account  of  what  he  didn’t  see  there.  I 
have  a remarkable  catalogue  of  similar  objects  at  Constantinople. 
I didn’t  see  the  dancing  dervishes,  it  was  Ramazan  ; nor  the 
howling  dervishes  at  Scutari,  it  was  Ramazan  ; nor  the  interior 
of  St.  Sophia,  nor  the  women’s  apartment  of  the  Seraglio,  nor 
the  fashionable  promenade  at  the  Sweet  Waters,  always  because 
it  was  Ramazan  ; during  which  period  the  dervishes  dance  and 
howl  but  rarel}’ , their  legs  and  lungs  being  unequal  to  much  ex- 
ertion during  a fast  of  fourteen  hours.  On  account  of  the  same 
holy  season,  the  royal  palaces  and  mosques  are  shut;  and 
though  the  valley  of  the  Sweet  Waters  is  there,  no  one  goes 
to  walk  ; the  people  remaining  asleep  all  daj^,  and  passing  the 
night  in  feasting  and  carousing.  The  minarets  are  illuminated 
at  this  season  ; even  the  humblest  mosque  at  Jerusalem,  or 
Jaffa,  mounted  a few  circles  of  dingy  lamps  ; those  of  the  capi- 
Isal  were  handsomely  lighted  with  man}'  festoons  of  lamps,  which 
had  a fine  effect  from  the  water.  I need  not  mention  other  and 
constant  illuminations  of  the  city  which  innumerable  travellers 
have  described  — I mean  the  fires.  There  were  three  in  Pera 
during  our  eight  days’  stay  there  ; but  they  did  not  last  long 
enough  to  bring  the  Sultan  out  of  bed  to  come  and  lend  his  aid. 
Mr.  Hobhouse  (quoted  in  the  “Guide-book”)  says,  if  a fire 
lasts  an  hour,  the  Sultan  is  bound  to  attend  it  in  person ; and 
that  people  having  petitions  to  present,  have  often  set  houses 
on  fire  for  the  purpose  of  forcing  out  this  royal  trump.  The 
Sultan  can’t  lead  a very  “jolly  life,”  if  this  rule  be  universal. 
Fancy  his  Highness,  in  the  midst  of  his  moon-faced  beauties, 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


351 


handkerchief  in  hand,  and  obliged  to  tie  it  round  his  face,  and 
go  out  of  his  warm  harem  at  midnight  at  the  cursed  cry  of 
“ Yang  en  Var  ! ” 

We  saw  his  Highness  in  the  midst  of  his  people  and  their 
petitions,  when  he  came  to  the  mosque  at  Tophana ; not  the 
largest,  but  one  of  the  most  picturesque  of  the  public  buildings 
of  the  cit3^  Tlie  streets  were  crowded  vvitli  [)eople  [watching 
for  the  august  arrival,  and  lined  with  the  squat  militaiy  in  their 
bastard  Pluropean  costume  ; the  sturd}"  police,  with  bandeliers 
and  brown  surtouts,  keeping  order,  driving  off  the  faithful  from 
the  railings  of  the  PIsplanade  through  which  tlieir  Emperor  was 
to  pass,  and  onty  admitting  (with  a very  unjust  partiality,  I 
thought)  us  Europeans  into  that  reserved  space.  Before  the 
august  arrival,  numerous  officers  collected,  colonels  and  pashas 
went  by  with  their  attendant  running  footmen  ; the  most  active, 
insolent,  and  hideous  of  these  great  men,  as  I thought,  being 
his  Highness’s  black  eunuchs,  who  went  prancing  tli rough  the 
crowd,  which  separated  before  Jiem  with  every  sign  of  respect. 

The  common  women  were  assembled  b}^  many  hundreds  : 
the  yakmac,  a muslin  chin-cloth  which  they  wear,  makes  almost 
every  face  look  the  same ; but  the  eyes  and  noses  of  these 
beauties  are  generally  visible,  and,  for  the  most  part,  both  these 
features  are  good.  The  jolly  negresses  wear  the  same  white 
veil,  but  they  are  by  no  means  so  particular  about  hiding  the 
charms  of  their  good-natured  black  faces,  and  they  let  the  cloth 
blow  about  as  it  lists,  and  grin  unconfined.  Wherever  we  went 
the  negroes  seemed  happ}\  The}"  have  the  organ  of  child- 
loving  ; little  creatures  were  always  prattling  on  their  shoulders, 
queer  little  things  in  night-gowns  of  }"ellow  dimity,  with  great 
flowers,  and  pink,  or  red,  or  yellow  shawls,  with  great  eyes  glis- 
tening underneath.  Of  such  the  black  women  seemed  always 
the  happy  guardians.  I saw  one  at  a fountain,  holding  one 
child  in  her  arms,  and  giving  another  a drink  — a ragged  little 
beggar — a sweet  and  touching  picture  of  a black  charit}". 

I am  almost  forgetting  his  Highness  the  Sultan.  About  a 
hundred  guns  were  fired  off'  at  clumsy  intervals  from  the  Espla- 
nade facing  the  Bosphorus,  warning  us  that  the  monarch  had 
setoff  from  his  Summer  Palace,  and  was  on  the  wa}^  to  his  grand 
canoe.  At  last  that  vessel  made  its  appearance ; the  band 
struck  up  his  favorite  air ; his  caparisoned  horse  was  led  down 
to  the  shore  to  receive  him  ; the  eunuchs,  fat  pashas,  colonels, 
and  officers  of  state  gathering  round  as  the  Commander  of  the 
Faithful  mounted.  I had  the  indescribable  happiness  of  seeing 
him  at  a very  short  distance.  The  Padishah,  or  Father  of  all 


352 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


the  Sovereigns  on  earth,  has  not  that  majestic  air  which  some 
sovereigns  possess,  and  which  makes  the  beholder’s  eyes  wink, 
and  his  knees  tremble  under  him : he  has  a black  beard,  and 
a handsome,  well-bred  face,  of  a French  cast ; he  looks  like  a 
3^oung  French  roue  worn  out  by  debauch  ; his  ej-es  bright,  with 
black  rings  round  them  ; his  cheeks  pale  and  hollow.  He  was 
lolling  on  his  horse  as  if  he  could  hardly'  hold  himself  on  the 
saddle  : or  as  if  his  cloak,  fastened  with  a blazing  diamond  clasp 
on  his  breast,  and  falling  over  his  horse’s  tail,  pulled  him  back. 
Hut  the  handsome  sallow  face  of  the  Refuge  of  the  World  looked 
decidedl}^  interesting  and  intellectual.  I have  seen  maii}^  a 
young  Don  Juan  at  Paiis,  behind  a counter,  with  such  a beard 
and  countenance  ; the  flame  of  passion  still  burning  in  his  hol- 
low e}"es,  while  on  his  damp  brow  was  stamped  the  fatal  mark 
of  premature  decay.  The  man  we  saw  cannot  live  many  sum- 
]iiers.  Women  and  wine  are  said  to  have  brought  the  Zilullah 
to  this  state  ; and  it  is  whispered  by  the  dragomans,  or  laquais- 
de-place,  (from  whom  travellers  at  Constantinople  generally 
get  their  political  information,)  that  the  Sultan’s  mother  and 
liis  ministers  conspire  to  keep  him  plunged  in  sensuality,  that 
they  may  govern  the  kingdom  according  to  their  own  fancies. 
Mr.  Urquhart,  I am  sure,  thinks  that  Lord  Palmerston  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  business,  and  drugs  the  Sultan’s  champagne 
for  the  benefit  of  Russia. 

As  the  Pontiff  of  Mussulmans  passed  into  the  mosque,  a 
shower  of  petitions  was  flung  from  the  steps  where  the  crowd 
wms  collected,  and  over  the  heads  of  the  gendarmes  in  brown. 
A general  cry,  as  for  justice,  rose  up  ; and  one  old  ragged  wo- 
man came  forward  and  burst  through  the  throng,  howling,  and 
flinging  about  her  lean  arms,  and  baring  her  old  shrunken 
breast.  1 never  saw  a finer  action  of  tragic  woe,  or  heard 
•sounds  more  pitiful  than  those  old  passionate  groans  of  hers. 
What  was  your  prayer,  poor  old  wretched  soul  ? The  gendarmes 
hemmed  her  round,  and  hustled  her  away,  but  rather  kindl3\ 
The  Padishah  went  on  quite  impassible  — the  picture  of  debauch 
and  ennui. 

I like  pointing  morals,  and  inventing  for  m3’self  cheap  con- 
solations, to  reconcile  me  to  that  state  of  life  into  which  it  has 
l)leased  heaven  to  call  me  ; and  as  the  Light  of  the  World  dis- 
appeared round  the  corner,  I reasoned  iMeasantly  with  m3’self 
about  his  Highness,  and  enjoyed  that  secret  selfish  satisfaction 
a man  has,  who  sees  he  is  better  off  than  his  neighbor.  “ Mi- 
chael Angelo,”  I said,  “3’ouare  still  (l\y  courtes3*)  3’oung : if 
y’ou  had  five  hundred  thousand ^ 3^ear,  and  were  a great  prince, 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


353 


I would  a wager  that  men  would  discover  in  3’'ou  a maguifi- 
cent  courtes}'  of  demeanor,  and  a majestic  presence  that  onl}'' 
belongs  to  the  sovereigns  of  the  world.  If  you  had  such  an 
income,  3^011  think  3’ou  could  spend  it  with  splendor  ! distributing 
genial  hospitalities,  kindl3’  alms,  soothing  miseiy,  bidding  liumii- 
ity  be  of  good  heart,  rewarding  desert.  If  you  had  such  means 
of  purchasing  pleasure,  you  think,  you  rogue,  3 011  could  relish 
it  with  gusto.  But  fancy  being  brought  to  the  condition  of  the 
poor  Light  of  the  Universe  yonder  ; and  reconcile  3"ourself  with 
the  idea  that  you  arc  onU  a birthing  rushlight.  The  cries  of 
the  poor  widow  fall  as  dead  upon  him  as  the  smiles  of  the 
brightest  eyes  out  of  Georgia.  He  can’t  stir  aliroad  but  those 
abominable  cannon  begin  roaring  and  deafening  his  ears,  lie 
can’t  see  the  world  but  over  the  shoulders  of  a row  of  fat  pashas, 
and  eunuchs,  with  their  infernal  ugliness.  Ilis  ears  can  never 
be  regaled  with  a word  of  ti’uth,  or  blessed  with  an  honest  laugh. 
The  onU  privilege  of  manhood  left  to  him,  he  enjoys  but  for  a 
month  in  the  year,  at  this  time  of  Ramazan,  when  he  is  forced 
to  fast  for  fifteen  hours  ; and,  by  consequence,  has  the  blessing 
of  feeling  hungry.”  Sunset  during  Lent  appears  to  be  his  sin- 
gle moment  of  pleasure  ; the3^  say  the  ]ioor  fellow  is  ravenous 
by  that  time,  and  as  the  gun  fires  the  dish-covers  are  taken  off, 
so  that  for  five  minutes  a da3'  he  lives  and  is  hap^iy  over  pillau, 
like  anotlier  mortal. 

And  yet,  when  floating  by  the  Summer  Palace,  a barbaric 
ediiice  of  wood  and  marlile,  with  gilded  suns  blazing  over  the 
porticos,  and  all  sorts  of  strange  ornaments  and  trophies 
figuring  on  the  gates  and  railings  — when  we  passed  a long  row 
of  barred  and  filigreed  windows,  looking  on  the  water  — wlien 
we  were  told  that  those  were  the  apartments  of  his  Highness’s 
ladies,  and  actualh'  heard  them  whispering  and  laughing  behind 
the  bars  — a strange  feeling  of  curiosit3’  came  over  some  ill-reg- 
ulated minds — just  to  have  one  peep,  one  look  at  all  those  won- 
drous beauties,  singing  to  the  dulcimers,  paddling  in  the 
fountains,  dancing  in  the  marble  halls,  or  lolling  on  the  golden 
cusliions,  as  the  gaudy  black  slaves  brouglit  pipes  and  coffee. 
This  tumultuous  movement  was  calmed  lyv  thinking  of  that  dread- 
ful statement  of  travellers,  that  in  one  of  the  most  elegant  halls 
there  is  a trap-door,  on  peeping  below  which  3^011  may  see  the 
Bosphorus  running  underneath,  into  which  some  luckless  beaut3^ 
is  plunged  occasionally,  and  the  trap-door  is  shut,  and  the  dan- 
cing and  the  singing,  and  the  smoking  and  the  laughing  go  on 
as  before.  They  say  it  is  death  to  pick  up  aii3^  of  the  sacks 
-thereabouts,  if  a stray  one  should  float  by  you.  There  were 

23 


354 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


none  any  day  when  I passed,  at  leasts  on  the  surface  of  the 

ivater. 

It  has  been  rather  a fashion  of  our  travellers  to  apologize  for 
Turkish  life,  of  late,  and  paint  glowing,  agreeable  pictures  of 
mau}^  of  its  institutions.  The  celebrated  author  of  “ Palm- 
Leaves”  (his  name  is  famous  under  the  date-trees  of  the  Nile, 
and  uttered  with  respect  beneath  the  tents  of  the  Bedaween,) 
has  touchingly  described  Ibrahim  Pasha’s  paternal  fondness, 
who  cut  off  a black  slave’s  head  for  having  dropped  and  maimed 
one  of  his  children  ; and  has  penned  a melodious  panegyric  of 
“The  Harem,”  and  of  the  fond  and  beautiful  duties  of  the 
inmates  of  that  place  of  love,  obedience,  and  seclusion.  I saw, 
at  the  mausoleum  of  the  late  Sultan  Mahmoud’s  family,  a good 
subject  for  a Gnazul,  in  the  true  new  Oriental  manner. 

These  royal  burial-places  are  the  resort  of  the  pious  Moslems. 
Lamps  are  kept  burning  there  ; and  in  the  ante  chambers,  copies 
of  the  Koran  are  provided  for  the  use  of  believers  ; and  you 
never  pass  these  cemeteries  but  you  see  Turks  washing  at  the 
cisterns,  previous  to  entering  for  pra}’er,  or  squatted  on  the 
benches,  chanting  passages  from  the  sacred  volume.  Chris- 
tians, I believe,  are  not  admitted,  but  ma}"  look  through  the 
bars,  and  see  the  coffins  of  the  defunct  monarchs  and  children 
of  the  royal  race.  Each  lies  in  his  narrow  sarcophagus,  which 
is  commonly  flanked  by  huge  candles,  and  covered  with  a rich 
embroidered  pall.  At  the  head  of  each  coffin  rises  a slab,  with 
a gilded  inscription ; for  the  princesses,  the  slab  is  simple,  not 
unlike  our  own  inonnmental  stones.  The  head-stones  of  the 
tombs  of  the  defunct  princes  are  decorated  with  a turban,  or, 
since  the  introduction  of  the  latter  article  of  dress,  with  the 
red  fez.  That  of  Mahmoud  is  decorated  with  the  imperial 
aigrette. 

In  this  dismal  but  splendid  museum,  I remarked  two  little 
tombs  with  little  red  fezzes,  very  small,  and  for  very  young 
heads  evidently,  which  were  lying  under  the  little  embroidered 
l)alls  ()f‘  state.  I forget  whether  they  had  candles  too ; but 
tkeir  little  flame  of  life  was  soon  extinguished,  and  there  was 
no  need  of  many  pounds  of  wax  to  typify  it.  These  were  the 
tombs  of  Mahmoud’s  grandsons,  nephews  of  the  present  Light 
of  the  Universe,  and  children  of  his  sister,  the  wife  of  Halil 
Pacha.  Little  children  die  in  all  ways  ; these  of  the  much- 
maligned  Mahometan  royal  race  perished  by  the  bowstring. 
Sultan  Mahmoud  (may  he  rest  in  glory!)  strangled  the  one; 
but,  having  some  spark  of  human  feeling,  was  so  moved  by  the 
wretchedness  and  agon^'  of  the  poor  bereaved  mother,  his 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


355 


daughter,  that  his  ro^’al  heart  relented  towards  her,  and  he 
promised  that,  should  she  ever  have  another  child,  it  should  be 
allowed  to  live.  He  died;  and  Abdul  Medjid  (ma}\his  name 
be  blessed!)  the  debauched  young  man  whom  we  just  saw 
riding  to  the  mosque,  succeeded.  His  sister,  whom  he  is  said 
to  have  loved,  became  again  a mother,  and  had  a son.  Rut 
she  relied  upon  her  father’s  word  and  her  august  brother’s 
love,  and  hoped  that  this  little  one  should  be  spared.  The 
same  accursed  hand  tore  this  infant  out  of  its  mother’s  bosom, 
and  killed  it.  The  poor  woman’s  heart  broke  outright  at  this 
second  calamit^q  and  she  died.  But  on  her  death-bed  she  sent 
for  her  brother,  re1)uked  him  as  a perjurer  and  an  assassin,  and 
expired  calling  down  the  divine  justice  on  his  head.  She  lies 
now  b}^  the  side  of  the  two  little  fezzes. 

Now  I say  this  would  be  a fine  subject  for  an  Oriental  poem. 
The  details  are  dramatic  and  noble,  and  could  be  grandlj^ 
touched  by  a fine  artist.  If  the  mother  had  borne  a daughter, 
the  child  would  have  been  safe ; that  perplexity  might  be 
pathetically  depicted  as  agitating  the  bosom  of  the  young  wife, 
about  to  become  a mother.  A son  is  born  : you  can  see  her 
despair  and  the  pitiful  looks  she  casts  on  the  child,  and  the  way 
in  which  she  hugs  it  eveiy  time  the  curtains  of  her  door  are 
removed.  The  Sultan  hesitated  probaljly ; he  allowed  the 
infant  to  live  for  six  weeks.  He  could  not  bring  his  royal  soul 
to  inflict  pain.  He  yields  at  last ; he  is  a mart\u'  — to  be  pitied, 
not  to  be  blamed.  If  he  melts  at  his  daugiiter’s  agony,  he  is  a 
man  and  a father.  There  are  men  and  fathers  too  in  the  much- 
maligned  Orient. 

Then  comes  the  second  act  of  the  tragedy.  The  new  hopes, 
the  fond  yearnings,  the  terrified  misgivings,  the  timid  l)elief, 
and  weak  confitlence  ; the  child  that  is  born  — and  dies  smiling 
prettil}'  — and  the  mother’s  heart  is  rent  so,  that  it  can  love,  or 
hope,  or  suffer  no  more.  Allah  is  God  ! She  sleeps  by  the 
little  fezzes.  Hark  ! the  guns  are  booming  over  the  water,  and 
his  Highness  is  coming  from  his  prayers. 

After  the  murder  of  that  little  child,  it  seems  to  me  one  can 
never  look  with  anything  but  horror  upon  the  butcherly  Herod 
who  ordered  it.  The  death  of  the  seventy  thousand  Janissaries 
ascends  to  historic  dignity,  and  takes  rank  as  war.  But  a great 
Prince  and  Light  of  the  Universe,  who  procures  abortions  and 
throttles  little  babies,  dwindles  away  into  such  a frightful  insig- 
nificance of  crime,  that  those  may  respect  him  who  will.  1 pity 
their  Excellencies  the  Ambassadors,  who  are  obliged  to  smirk 
and  cringe  to  such  a rascal.  To  do  the  Turks  justice  — and  two 


35G 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


da^'s’  walk  in  Constantinople  will  settle  this  fact  as  well  as  a 
year’s  residence  in  the  city  — the  people  do  not  seem  in  the 
least  animated  by  this  Herodian  spirit.  1 never  saw  more 
kindness  to  children  than  among  all  classes,  more  fathers  walk- 
ing about  with  little  solemn  Mahometans  in  red  caps  and  big 
trousers,  more  business  going  on  than  in  the  toy  quarter,  and  in 
the  Atmeidan.  Although  you  ma}^  see  there  the  Thebaic  stone 
set  up  b}'  the  Emperor  Theodosius,  and  the  bronze  column  of 
serpents  which  Murra}’  sa3*s  was  brought  from  Delphi,  but 
which  111}’  guide  informed  me  was  the  very  one  exhibited  by 
Moses  in  the  wilderness,  3'et  I found  the  examination  of  these 
antiquities  much  less  pleasant  than  to  look  at  the  man}"  troops 
of  children  assembled  on  the  plain  to  pla}’ ; and  to  watch  them 
as  the}’  were  dragged  about  in  little  (pieer  arobas,  or  painted 
carriages,  which  are  there  kept  for  hire.  1 have  a picture  ol 
one  of  them  now  in  my  eyes  : a little  green  oval  machine,  with 
flowers  rudely  painted  round  the  window,  out  of  which  two 
smiling  heads  are  peeping,  the  pictures  of  happiness.  An  old, 
good-humored,  gray-bearded  Turk  is  tugging  the  cart;  and 
behind  it  walks  a lady  in  a yakmac  and  yellow  slippers,  and  a 
black  female  slave,  grinning  as  usual,  towards  whom  the  little 
coach-riders  are  looking.  A small,  sturdy,  barefooted  Mussul- 
man is  examining  the  cart  with  some  feelings  of  envy  : he  is  too 
poor  to  i)urchase  a ride  for  himself  and  the  round-faced  puppy- 
dog,  which  lie  is  hugging  in  his  arms  as  young  ladies  in  our 
country  do  dolls. 

All  the  neighborhood  of  the  Atmeidan  is  exceedingly  pictur- 
esque— the  mos(}ue  court  and  cloister,  where  the  Persians  have 
their  stalls  of  sweetmeats  and  tobacco  ; a superb  sycamore-tree 
grows  in  the  middle  of  this,  overshadowing  an  aromatic  foun- 
tain ; great  flocks  of  pigeons  are  settling  in  corners  of  the 
cloister,  and  barley  is  sold  at  the  gates,  with  which  the  good- 
natured  people  feed  them.  Fi’om  the  Atmeidan  you  have  a tine 
view  of  St.  So[)hia  : and  here  stands  a mosque  which  struck  me 
as  being  much  more  picturesque  and  sumptuous  — the  Mosque 
of  Sultan  Achim'd,  with  its  six  gleaming  white  minarets  and 
its  beautiful  courts  and  trees.  Any  infidels  may  enter  the  court 
without  molestation,  and,  looking  through  the  barred  windows 
of  the  mos(]ue,  have  a view  of  its  airy  and  spacious  interior. 
A small  MudicMice  of  women  was  collected  there  when  1 looked 
in,  squatted  on  the  mats,  and  listening  to  a [)reacher,  who  was 
walking  among  them,  and  speaking  with  great  energy.  IMy 
dragoman  interpreted  to  me  the  sense  of  a few  words  of  his 
sermon  : he  was  warning  them  of  the  danger  of  gadding  about 


FROM  COllNillLL  TO  CAIRO. 


357 

to  pul)lic  places,  and  of  the  immorality  of  too  much  talking ; 
and,  1 dare  say,  we  might  have  had  more  valuable  information 
from  him  regarding  the  follies  of  womankind,  had  not  a tall 
Turk  clapi)ed  ni}’  interpreter  on  the  shoulder,  and  pointed  him 
to  l)e  off. 

Although  the  ladies  are  veiled,  and  muOled  with  the  ugliest 
dresses  in  the  woild,  yet  it  ai)i)cars  their  modest}’  is  alarmed 
in  s[)ite  of  all  the  coverings  which  they  wear.  One  day,  in  the 
bazaar,  a fat  old  body,  with  diamond  rings  on  her  lingers,  that 
were  tinged  with  henne  of  a logwood  color,  came  to  the  shop 
where  I was  purchasing  sli[)pers,  with  her  son,  a young  Aga  of 
six  years  of  age,  dressed  in  a braidc'd  IVock-coat,  with  a huge 
tassel  to  his  fez,  exceeding  fat,  and  of  a most  solemn  demeanor. 
Tlie  young  Aga  came  for  a [>air  of  shoes,  and  liis  contortions 
were  so  delightfid  as  he  tried  them,  that  1 remained  looking  on 
with  great  pleasure,  wisliing  for  Leech  to  l>e  at  hand  to  sketch 
his  lordshi[)  and  his  fat  mamma,  who  sat  on  tlie  counter.  That 
lady  fancied  I was  looking  at  her,  though,  as  far  as  I could  see, 
she  had  the  figure  and  complexiem  of  a roly-poly  pudding  ; and 
so,  with  quite  a [)remature  bashhilness,  she  sent  me  a message 
b}’  the  shoemaker,  ordering  me  to  walk  away  if  I had  made 
in}’  purchases,  for  that  ladies  of  her  rank  did  not  choose  to  be 
stared  at  by  strangers  ; and  1 was  obliged  to  take  my  leave, 
though  with  sincere  regret,  for  the  little  lord  had  just  squeezed 
himself  into  an  attitude  than  wiiich  I never  saw  anything  more 
ludicrous  in  Genei'al  Tom  Thumb.  When  the  ladies  of  the 
Seraglio  come  to  that  bazaar  with  their  cortege  of  infernal  l)lack 
eunuchs,  strangers  are  told  to  move  on  briskly.  1 saw  a bevy 
of  about  eight  of  these,  with  their  aides-de-camp  ; but  they  were 
wrapped  up,  and  looked  just  as  vulgar  and  ugly  as  the  other 
W’omen,  and  were  not,  I suppose,  of  the  most  beautiful  sort. 
The  poor  devils  are  allowed  to  come  out,  half  a dozen  times  in 
the  year,  to  spend  their  little  w’retched  allowance  of  pocket- 
money  in  purchasing  trinkets  and  tobacco  ; all  the  rest  of  the 
time  thev  pursue  the  beautiful  duties  of  their  existence  in  the 
walls  of  the  sacred  harem. 

Though  strangers  are  not  allowed  to  see  the  interior  of  the 
cage  in  which  these  birds  of  Paradise  are  confined,  yet  many 
parts  of  the  Seraglio  are  free  to  the  curiosity  of  visitors,  who 
choose  to  drop  a backsheesh  here  and  there.  I landed  one 
morning  at  the  Seraglio  point  from  Galata,  close  b}’  an  ancient 
pleasure-house  of  the  defunct  Sultan  ; a vast  broad-brimmed 
pavilion,  that  looks  agreeable  enough  to  be  a dancing-room  for 
ghosts  now : there  is  another  summer-house,  the  Guide-book 


358 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


cheerfull}’  sa3^s,  whither  the  Sultan  goes  to  sport  with  his  women 
and  mutes.  A regiment  of  infantiy,  with  their  music  at  their 
head,  were  marching  to  exercise  in  the  outer  grounds  of  the 
Seraglio  ; and  we  follov/ed  them,  and  had  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  their  evolutions,  and  hearing  their  bands,  upon  a fine 
green  plain  under  the  Seraglio  walls,  where  stands  one  solitaiy 
column,  erected  in  memory  of  some  triumph  of  some  Byzantian 
emperor. 

There  were  three  battalions  of  the  Turkish  infantiy  exer- 
cising here  ; and  the}’  seemed  to  perform  their  evolutions  in  a 
very  satisfactory  manner : that  is,  the}’  fired  all  together,  and 
charged  and  halted  in  very  straight  lines,  and  bit  off  imaginary 
cartridge-tops  with  great  fierceness  and  regularity,  and  made 
all  their  ramrods  ring  to  measure,  just  like  so  many  Christians. 
The  men  looked  small,  young,  clumsy,  and  ill-built ; uncom- 
fortable in  their  shabby  Euro})ean  clothes  ; and  about  the  legs, 
especially,  seemed  exceedingly  weak  and  ill-formed.  Some 
score  of  military  invalids  were  lolling  in  the  sunshine,  about  a 
fountain  and  a marble  summer-house  that  stand  on  the  ground, 
watching  their  comrades’  manoeuvres  (as  if  they  could  never 
liave  enough  of  that  delightful  pastime)  ; and  these  sick  were 
much  better  cared  for  than  their  healthy  companions.  Each 
man  had  two  dressing-gowns,  one  of  white  cotton,  and  an  outer 
wrapper  of  warm  brown  woollen.  Their  heads  were  accom- 
modated with  wadded  cotton  nightcaps  ; and  it  seemed  to  me, 
from  their  condition  and  from  the  excellent  character  of  the 
military  hospitals,  that  it  would  be  much  more  wholesome  to  be 
ill  than  to  be  well  in  the  Turkish  service. 

Eacing  this  green  esplanade,  and  the  Bosphorus  shining 
beyond  it,  rise  the  great  walls  of  the  outer  Seraglio  Gardens : 
huge  masses  of  ancient  masonry,  over  which  peep  the  roofs  of 
numerous  kiosks  and  outhouses,  amongst  thick  evergreens, 
])lanted  so  as  to  hide  the  beautiful  frequenters  of  the  place  from 
the  prying  eyes  and  telescopes.  We  could  not  catch  a glance 
of  a single  figure  moving  in  these  great  pleasure-grounds.  The 
road  winds  round  the  walls  ; and  the  outer  park,  which  is  like- 
wise planted  w'ith  trees,  and  diversified  by  garden-plots  and 
cottages,  had  more  the  air  of  the  outbuildings  of  a homely 
English  park,  than  of  a palace  wfiiich  we  must  all  have  imagined 
to  be  the  most  stately  in  the  world.  The  most  commonplace 
water-carts  were  passing  here  and  there  ; roads  were  being 
repaired  in  the  Macadamite  manner ; and  carpenters  were 
mending  the  park-palings,  just  as  they  do  in  Hampshire.  The 
next  thing  you  might  fancy  would  be  the  Sultan  walking  out 


FROM  CORNlllLL  TO  CAIRO. 


359 


with  a spud  and  a couple  of  dogs,  on  the  way  to  meet  the  post- 
bag and  the  Saint  James  s Clu  onicle. 

The  palace  is  no  palace  at  all.  It  is  a great  town  of  pa- 
vilions, built  without  oi’der,  here  and  there,  according  to  the 
fancy  of  succeeding  Lights  of  the  Universe,  or  their  favorites. 
The  only  row  of  domes  which  looked  particularly  regular  or 
stately,  were  the  kitchens.  As  you  examined  the  buildings 
the}’  had  a ruinous,  dilapidated  look  : tliey  are  not  furnished,  it 
is  said,  with  particular  splendor,  — not  a bit  more  elegantly 
than  Miss  JoneAs  seminary  for  young  ladies,  wliicli  we  may  be 
sure  is  much  more  comfortable  than  the  extensive  establishment 
of  his  Highness  Al)dul  jMedjid. 

In  the  little  staljlc  1 thought  to  see  some  marks  of  ro^'al 
magnificence,  and  some  horses  worthy  of  the  king  of  all  kings. 
But  the  Sultan  is  said  to  be  a very  timid  horseman  : the  animal 
that  is  always  kept  saddled  for  him  did  not  look  to  be  worth 
twenty  pounds  ; and  the  rest  of  the  horses  in  the  shabby,  dirty 
stalls,  were  small,  ill-kept,  common-looking  brutes.  You  might 
see  better,  it  seemed  to  me,  at  a country  inn  stable  on  any 
market-day. 

The  kitchens  are  the  most  sublime  part  of  the  Seraglio. 
There  are  nine  of  these  great  halls,  for  all  ranks,  from  his 
Highness  downwards,  where  man}'  hecatoml^s  are  roasted  dail}y 
according  to  the  accounts,  and  where  cooking  goes  on  with  a 
savage  Homeric  grandeur.  Chimne3's  are  despised  in  these 
primitive  halls  ; so  that  the  roofs  are  black  with  the  smoke  of 
hundreds  of  furnaces,  which  escapes  through  a}>ertures  in  the 
domes  above.  These,  too,  give  the  chief  light  in  the  rooms, 
which  streams  downwairds,  and  thickens  and  mingles  with  the 
smoke,  and  so  murkily  lights  up  hundreds  (d‘  swarthy  figures 
busy  about  the  spits  and  the  caldrons.  Close  to  the  door  by 
which  we  entered  the}'  w'ere  making  pastry  for  the  sultanas  ; 
and  the  chief  pastry-cook,  wdio  knew  my  guide,  invited  us 
courteously  to  see  the  process,  and  partake  of  the  delicacies 
prepared  for  those  charming  lips.  How  those  sweet  lips  must 
shine  after  eating  these  puffs  ! First,  huge  sheets  of  dough 
are  roiled  out  till  the  paste  is  about  as  thin  as  silver  paper : 
then  an  artist  forms  the  dough-muslin  into  a sort  of  drapery, 
curling  it  round  and  round  in  many  fanciful  and  pretty  shapes, 
until  it  is  all  got  into  the  circumference  of  a round  metal  tray 
in  which  it  is  baked.  Then  the  cake  is  di’enched  in  grease 
most  profusely  ; and,  finally,  a quantity  of  syrup  is  poured  over 
it,  when  the  delectable  mixture  is  complete.  The  moon-faced 
ones  are  said  to  devour  immense  quantities  of  this  wholesoiiae 


360 


EASTERN  SKETCHES 


food ; and,  in  fact,  are  eating  grease  and  sweetmeats  from 
morning  till  night.  I don’t  like  to  think  w^hat  the  consequences 
ma}'  be,  or  allude  to  the  agonies  which  the  delicate  creatures 
must  inevitabl}'  suffer. 

The  good-natured  chief  pastry-cook  tilled  a copper  basin  with 
greasy  puffs  ; and,  dipping  a dubious  ladle  into  a large  caldron, 
containing  several  gallons  of  syrup,  poured  a liberal  portion 
over  the  cakes,  and  invited  us  to  eat.  One  of  the  tarts  was 
quite  enough  for  me  : and  I excused  myself  on  the  plea  of  ill- 
health  from  imbibing  an}’  more  grease  and  sugar.  But  my 
companion,  the  dragoman,  finished  some  forty  puffs  in  a 
twinkling.  The}’  slipped  down  his  opened  jaws  as  the  sausages 
do  down  clowns’  throats  in  a pantomime.  His  moustaches 
shone  with  grease,  and  it  dripped  dowui  his  beard  and  fingers. 
We  thanked  the  smiling  chief  pastry-cook,  and  rewarded  him 
handsomely  for  the  tarts.  It  is  something  to  have  eaten  of  the 
dainties  prepared  for  the  ladies  of  the  harem  ; but  1 think  Mr. 
Cockle  ought  to  get  the  names  of  the  chief  sultanas  among  the 
exalted  patrons  of  his  antibilious  pills. 

From  the  kitchens  v>’e  passed  into  the  second  court  of  the 
Seraglio,  beyond  Avliich  is  death.  The  Guide-book  only  hints 
at  the  dangers  which  would  befall  a strangc*r  caught  prying  in 
the  mysterious  first  court  of  the  })alace.  1 have  read  “ Blue- 
beard,” and  don’t  care  Ibr  })eeihng  into  forbidden  doors;  so 
that  the  second  coui’t  was  (juite  enough  for  me  ; theq)leasure  of 
beholding  it  being  heightened,  as  it  were,  by  the  notion  of  the 
invisible  danger  sitting  next  door,  with  ii[)lirted  scimitar  ready 
to  fall  on  you  — i)resent  though  not  seen. 

A cloister  runs  along  one  side  of  this  court ; opposite  is  the 
hall  of  the  divan,  huge  but  low,  covered  with  lead,  and  gilt, 
after  the  IMoorish  manner,  plain  enough.”  The  Grand  Vizier 
sits  in  this  i)lace,  and  the  ambassadors  used  to  wait  here,  and 
be  conducted  hence  on  horseback,  attired  with  robes  of  honor. 
But  the  ceremony  is  now,  1 believe,  discontinued  ; the  English 
envoy,  at  any  rate,  is  not  allowed  to  receive  any  backsheesh, 
and  goes  away  as  he  came,  in  the  habit  of  his  own  nation.  On 
the  right  is  a door  leading  into  the  interior  of  the  Seraglio  ; none 
pass  through  it  hut  such  as  are  sent  the  Guide-book  says  : it 
is  impossible  to  top  the  terror  of  that  description. 

About  this  door  lads  and  servants  were  lolling,  ichoglans 
and  pages,  with  lazy  looks  and  shabby  dresses  ; and  among 
them,  sunning  himself  sulkily  on  a bench,  a poor  old  fat, 
wrinkled,  dismal  vHiite  ennucli,  with  little  fat  white  hands,  and 
a great  head  sunk  into  his  cljest,  and  two  sprawling  little  legs 


FROM  CORNU  ILL  TO  CAIRO. 


361 


that  seemed  incapable  to  hold  up  his  bloated  old  bod3^  He 
squeaked  out  some  siirl}’  I't'ply  to  1113’  friend  the  dragoman, 
who,  softened  and  sweetened  1)3'  tlie  tarts  he  had  just  been 
devouring,  was,  no  doubt,  anxious  to  be  polite  : and  the  poor 
worthy  fellow  walked  awa3'  rather  crestfallen  at  this  return  of 
his  salutation,  and  hastened  me  out  of  the  place. 

d'lu'  i)alace  of  the  Seraglio,  the  cloister  with  marble  pillars, 
the  liall  of  the  ambassadors,  the  impenetral)le  gate  guarded  l>3" 
eunuchs  and  ichoglans,  have  a romantic  look  in  [)rint ; bnt  not 
so  in  realitv.  IMost  of  the  marble  is  wood,  almost  all  the 
gilding  is  faded,  the  guards  are  shabb3',  the  foolish  perspectives 
l)ainted  on  the  walls  are  half  cracked  off.  The  place  looks  like 
\bmxhall  in  the  daytime. 

AVe  passed  ont  of  the  second  court  under  The  Sublime 
PoBTE  — which  is  like  a fortified  gate  of  a German  town  of  the 
middle  ages — into  the  outer  court,  round  which  are  public 
ollices,  hos{)itals,  and  dwellings  of  the  mnltifarions  servants  of 
the  palace.  This  iilacc  is  very  wide  and  picturesque  : there  is 
a pretty  church  of  Ilyzantine  architecture  at  the  further  end  ; 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  court  a magnificent  })lane-tree,  of  pro- 
digious dimensions  and  fabulous  age  according  to  the  guides  ; 
St.  Sophia  towers  in  the  further  distance  : and  from  here,  per- 
haps, is  the  best  view  of  its  light  swelling  domes  and  beautiful 
liroportioiis.  The  l^orte  itself,  too,  forms  an  excellent  subject 
for  the  sketcher,  if  the  officers  of  the  court  will  permit  him  t<) 
design  it.  1 made  the  attenq)!,  and  a couple  of  Turkish  beadles 
looked  on  very  good-naturedly  lor  some  time  at  the  progress  of 
the  drawing ; Init  a good  number  of  other  spectators  speedily^ 
joined  them,  and  made  a crowd,  which  is  not  permitted,  it 
would  seem,  in  the  Seraglio  ; so  1 was  told  to  pack  up  my  porG 
folio,  and  remoye  the  cause  of  the  disturbance,  and  lost  my 
drawing  of  the  Ottoman  Porte. 

I don’t  think  I have  anything  more  to  sa3'  about  the  city 
which  has  not  been  much  better  told  by  graver  travellers,  i, 
w'itli  them,  could  see  (perhaps  it  v/as  the  preaching  of  the 
politicians  that  wairned  me  of  the  fact)  that  we  are  looking  on 
at  the  last  days  of  an  empire  ; and  heard  man3'  stories  of 
weakness,  disorder,  and  oppression.  I even  saw  a Turkish 
lad3'  drive  up  to  Sultan  Achmet’s  mosqne  in  n hnmgham.  Is 
not  that  a snliject  to  moralize  upon  ? And  might  one  not  draw 
endless  conclusions  from  it,  that  the  knell  of  the  Turkish  do- 
minion is  rung  ; that  the  European  spirit  and  institutions  once 
admitted  can  never  be  rooted  out  again ; and  that  the  scep- 
ticism prevalent  amongst  the  higher  orders  must  descend  ere 


362 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


very  long  to  the  lower ; and  the  cry  of  the  muezzin  from  the 
mosque  become  a mere  ceremony  ? 

But  as  I onl}^  stayed  eight  da}^s  in  this  place,  and  knew  not 
a s^dlable  of  the  language,  perhaps  it  is  as  well  to  pretermit 
any  disquisitions  about  the  spirit  of  the  people.  I can  only 
say  that  the}’  looked  to  be  very  good-natured,  handsome  and 
lazy ; that  the  women’s  yellow  slippers  are  very  ugly ; that  the 
kabobs  at  the  shop  hard  by  the  Rope  Bazaar  are  very  hot  and 
good  ; and  that  at  the  Armenian  cook-shops  they  serve  you 
delicious  fish,  and  a stout  raisin  wine  of  no  small  merit. 
There  came  in,  as  we  sat  and  dined  there  at  sunset,  a good 
old  Turk,  who  called  for  a penny  fish,  and  sat  down  under  a 
tree  very  humbly,  and  ate  it  with  his  own  bread.  We  made 
that  jolly  old  Mussulman  happy  with  a quart  of  the  raisin  wine  ; 
and  his  eyes  twinkled  with  every  fresh  glass,  and  he  wiped  his 
old  beard  delighted,  and  talked  and  chirped  a good  deal,  and,  I 
dare  say,  told  us  the  whole  state  of  the  empire.  He  was  the 
only  Mussulman  with  whom  I attained  any  degree  of  intimacy 
during  my  stay  in  Constantinople  ; and  you  will  see  that,  for 
obvious  reasons,  1 cannot  divulge  the  particulars  of  our  con- 
versation. 

You  have  nothing  to  say,  and  you  own  it,”  says  somebody  : 
“then  why  write?”  That  question  perhaps  (between  our- 
seh’es)  I have  put  likewise  ; and  yet,  my  dear  sir,  there  are  some 
things  worth  remembering  even  in  this  bi’ief  letter  : that  woman 
in  the  brougham  is  an  idea  of  significance  : that  com[)arison  of 
the  Seraglio  to  Vauxhall  in  the  daytime  is  a true  and  real  one  ; 
from  botli  of  which  your  own  great  soul  and  ingenious  philo- 
so[)hic  s[)irit  may  draw  conclusions,  that  1 myself  have  modestly 
forborne  to  [)ress.  You  are  too  clever  to  require  a moral  to  be 
taeketl  to  all  the  fables  you  read,  as  is  done  for  children  in  the 
spelling-books  ; else  1 would  tell  you  that  the  government  of 
the  (J)ttoman  Forte  seems  to  be  as  rotten,  as  wrinkled,  and  as 
lV‘e])le  as  the  old  eunuch  I saw  crawling  about  it  in  the  sun  ; 
that  when  the  lad}'  drove  up  in  a brougham  to  Sultan  Achmet,  I 
felt  that  the  schoolmaster  was  really  abroad  ; and  that  the  cres- 
cent will  go  out  before  that  luminary,  as  meekly  as  the  moon 
does  before  the  sun. 


FROM  COUNIliLL  TO  CAIROo 


363 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

KIIOUES. 

The  sailing  of  a vessel  direct  for  Jaffa  brought  a great  nnm- 
ber  of  passengers  together,  and  onr  decks  were  covered  with 
Christian,  Jew,  and  Ileathcn.  In  the  cabin  we  were  Poles  and 
Russians,  Ercnchnien,  Germans,  Spaniards,  and  Greeks;  on 
the  deck  were  squatted  several  little  colonies  of  people  of  dif- 
ferent race  and  persuasion.  There  was  a Greek  Papa,  a noble 
figure  with  a flowing  and  venerable  white  beard,  who  had  been 
living  on  bread-and-water  for  I don’t  know  how  many  }'ears,  in 
order  to  save  a little  money  to  make  tlu'  pilgj  image  to  Jerusalem. 
TIum'c  were  several  famil'es  of  Jewish  Rabl)is,  who  celebrated 
their  feast  of  tabernacles  ” on  board  ; their  chief  men  perform- 
ing worship  twice  or  thrice  a day,  dressed  in  their  pontifical 
habits,  and  bound  with  phylacteries ; and  there  were  Turks,  who 
had  their  own  ceremonies  and  usages,  and  wisel}’  kept  aloof 
from  their  neighboi’s  of  Israel. 

The  dirt  of  these  children  of  captivit}^  exceeds  all  possibility 
of  description  ; the  profusion  of  stinks  which  they  raised,  the 
grease  of  their  venerable  garments  and  faces,  the  horrible  messes 
cooked  in  the  filthy  pots,  and  devoured  with  the  nasty  fingers, 
the  squalor  of  mats,  pots,  old  bedding,  and  foul  carpets  of  our 
Hebrew  friends,  could  hardly  be  painted  by  Swift,  in  his  dirti- 
est mood,  and  cannot  be,  of  course,  attempted  by  1113^  timid  and 
genteel  pen.  What  would  they  sa}^  in  Baker  Street  to  some 
sights  with  which  our  new  friends  favored  us?  What  would 
3^our  lad}’ship  have  said  if  you  had  seen  the  interesting  Greek 
nun  combing  her  hair  over  the  cabin  — combing  it  with  the  nat- 
ural fingers,  and,  averse  to  slaughter,  flinging  the  delicate  little 
intruders,  which  she  found  in  the  course  of  her  investigation, 
gentl}"  into  the  great  cabin?  Our  attention  was  a good  deal 
occupied  in  watching  the  strange  waj  s and  customs  of  the  va- 
"vious  comrades  of  ours. 

The  Jews  were  refugees  from  Poland,  going  to  la}^  their  bones 
to  rest  in  the  valle}'  of  Jehoshaphat,  and  performing  with  ex- 
ceedinaf  rigor  the  offices  of  their  religion.  At  morning  and 
evening  you  were  sure  to  see  the  chiefs  of  the  families,  arra^x'd 
in  white  robes,  bowing  over  their  books,  at  praver.  Once  a 
week,  on  the  eve  before  the  Sabbath,  there  was  a general 


3G4 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


washing  in  Jewry,  wiiicli  sufFiced  nntii  the  ensuing  FridaVc 
Tlie  men  wore  long  gowns,  and  caps  of  fur,  or  else  broad- 
brimmed  hats,  or,  in  service-time,  bound  on  their  heads  little 
iron  boxes,  with  the  sacred  name  engraved  on  them.  Among 
tlie  lads  there  were  some  beautiful  faces  ; and  among  the  wo- 
men your  humble  servant  discovered  one  who  was  a perfect  rose- 
l)ud  of  beaut}^  when  first  emerging  from’  her  Friday’s  toilette, 
and  for  a day  or  two  afterwards,  until  each  succeeding  day’s 
smut  darkened  those  fresh  and  delicate  clieeks  of  hers.  We 
had  some  very  rougli  weather  in  tlie  course  of  the  passage 
from  Constantinople  to  Jaffa,  and  the  sea  washed  over  and 
over  our  Israelitish  friends  and  their  baggages  and  bundles ; 
but  though  the3"  were  said  to  be  rich,  the\^  would  not  afford  to 
pa}^  for  cabin  shelter.  One  fatlier  of  a famii}' , finding  his  pro- 
geny half  drowned  in  a squall,  vowed  he  would  pay  for  a cabin  ; 
but  the  weather  was  somewhat  finer  the  next  day,  and  he  could 
not  squeeze  out  his  dollars,  and  the  ship’s  authorities  would  not 
admit  him  except  upon  payment. 

This  unwillingness  to  part  with  money  is  not  onlj"  found 
amongst  the  followers  of  Moses,  but  in  those  of  Mahomet,  and 
Cliristians  too.  When  we  went  to  purcliase  in  the  bazaars, 
after  offering  money  for  change,  tlie  honest  fellows  would  fre- 
quently keep  back  several  piastres,  and  when  urged  to  refund, 
would  give  most  dismally:  and  begin  doling  out  peiiii}"  b}^ 
pcnii}',  and  utter  pathetic  prayers  to  their  customer  not  to  take 
any  more.  I bought  five  or  six  pounds’  worth  of  Broussa  silks 
for  the  womenkind,  in  the  bazaar  at  Constantinople,  and  the 
rich  Armenian  who  sold  them  begged  for  three-halfpence  to 
pa}^  his  boat  to  Galata.  There  is  something  naif  and  amus- 
ing in  this  exhibition  of  cheatery  — this  simple  cringing,  and 
wheedling,  and  passion  for  twopence-halfpenny.  It  was  pleas- 
ant to  give  a millionnaire  beggar  an  alms,  and  laugh  in  his  face 
and  say,  '‘There,  Dives,  there’s  a penii}' for  3’ou : be  happ3', 
you  poor  old  swindling  scoundrel,  as  far  as  a penu3'  goes.”  I 
used  to  watch  these  Jews  on  shore,  and  making  bargains  with 
one  another  as  soon  as  they  came  on  board  ; the  battle  between 
vender  and  purchaser  was  an  agoiw  — the3' shrieked,  clasped 
hands,  appealed  to  one  another  passionately ; their  handsome, 
noble  faces  assumed  a look  of  woe  — quite  an  heroic  eagerness 
and  sadness  about  a farthing. 

Ambassadors  from  our  Hebrews  descended  at  Rhodes  to 
buy  provisions,  and  it  was  curious  to  see  their  dealings  : there 
was  our  venerable  Rabbi,  who,  robed  in  white  and  silver,  and 
bending  over  his  book  at  the  morning  service,  looked  like  a 


FROI\I  COUNIIiLL  TO  CAIRO. 


3()5 

patriarch,  and  whom  I saw  chaffering  about  a fowl  with  a brother 
Rhodian  Israelite.  How  they  fought  over  the  bod3^  of  that  lean 
animal ! The  street  swarmed  with  Jews  : goggling  eyes  looked 
out  from  the  old  carved  casements  — hooked  noses  issued  from 
the  low  antique  doors  — Jew  bo^  s driving  donkeys,  Hebrew 
mothers  nursing  children,  dusky,  tawdrv,  ragged  young  beau- 
ties and  most  venerable  gi'a\’-bearded  fathers  were  all  gathered 
round  about  the  affair  of  the  hen  ! And  at  the  same  time 
that  our  Rabbi  was  arranging  the  price  of  it,  his  children  were 
instructed  to  procure  bundles  of  green  branches  to  decorate  the 
ship  during  tlieii’  feast.  Think  of  the  centuries  during  which 
these  wonderful  peo[)le  have  remained  unchanged  ; and  how, 
from  the  days  of  Jacob  downwards,  the}'  have  believed  and 
swindled  ! 

The  Rhodian  Jews,  with  their  genius  for  fdth,  have  made 
their  quarter  of  the  no1)le,  desolate  old  town,  the  most  ruinous 
and  wretched  of  all.  The  escutcheons  of  the  proud  old  knights 
are  still  carved  over  the  doors,  whence  issue  these  miserable 
greasy  hucksters  and  pedlars.  The  Turks  respected  these 
emblems  of  the  brave  enemies  whom  they  had  overcome,  and 
left  them  untouched.  When  the  French  seized  Malta  they  were 
l)y  no  means  so  delicate : they  effaced  armorial  bearings  with 
their  usual  hot-headed  eagerness  ; and  a few  years  after  they 
had  torn  down  the  coats-of-arms  of  the  gentry,  the  heroes  of 
Malta  and  Egypt  were  busy  de\  ising  heraldry  for  themselves, 
and  were  wild  to  be  barons  and  counts  of  the  empire. 

The  chivalrous  relics  at  Rhodes  are  very  superb.  I know  of 
no  buildings  whose  stately  and  picturesque  aspect  seems  to 
correspond  better  with  one’s  notions  of  their  proud  founders. 
The  towers  and  gates  are  warlike  and  strong,  but  beautiful  and 
aristocratic : you  see  that  they  must  have  been  high-bred 
gentlemen  who  built  them.  The  edifices  appear  in  almost  as 
perfect  a condition  as  when  they  were  in  the  occupation  of  the 
noble  Knights  of  St.  John  ; and  they  have  this  advantage  over 
modern  fortifications,  that  they  are  a thousand  times  more  pic- 
turesque. Ancient  war  condescended  to  ornament  itself,  and 
built  fine  carved  castles  and  vaulted  gates  : whereas,  to  judge 
from  Gibraltar  and  Malta,  nothing  can  be  less  romantic  than 
the  modern  military  architecture  ; which  sternly  regards  the 
fighting,  without  in  the  least  heeding  the  war-paint.  Some  of 
the  huge  artillery  with  which  the  place  was  defended  still  lies  in 
the  bastions  ; and  the  touch-holes  of  the  guns  are  preserved  by 
being  covered  with  rusty  old  corselets,  worn  by  defenders  of 
the  fort  three  hundred  years  ago.  The  Turks,  who  battered 


36G 


EASTER:>r  SKETCHES. 


down  chivaliy,  seem  to  be  waiting  their  turn  of  destruction 
now.  In  walking  through  Rhodes  one  is  strangel}^  affected  bj'- 
witnessing  the  signs  of  this  double  decay.  For  instance,  in  the 
streets  of  the  knights,  you  see  noble  houses,  surmounted  hy 
noble  escutcheons  of  superb  knights,  who  lived  there,  and 
prayed,  and  quarrelled,  and  murdered  the  Turks ; and  were  the 
most  gallant  pirates  of  the  inland  seas  ; and  made  vows  of 
chastity,  and  robbed  and  ravished  ; and,  professing  humility, 
would  admit  none  but  nobility  into  their  order ; and  died 
recommending  themselves  to  sweet  St.  John,  and  calmly  hoping 
for  heaven  in  consideration  of  all  the  heathen  the}"  had  slain. 
When  this  superb  fraternity  was  obliged  to  3ueld  to  courage  as 
great  as  theirs,  faith  as  sincere,  and  to  robbers  even  more  dex- 
terous and  audacious  than  the  noblest  knight  who  ever  sang  a 
canticle  to  the  Virgin,  these  halls  were  filled  by  magnificent 
Pashas  and  Agas,  who  lived  here  in  the  intervals  of  war,  and 
having  conquered  its  best  champions,  despised  Christendom 
and  chivaliy  pretty  much  as  an  Englishman  despises  a French- 
man. Now  the  famous  house  is  let  to  a shabb}^  merchant,  who 
has  his  little  beggarly  shop  in  the  bazaar ; to  a small  officer, 
who  ekes  out  his  wretched  pension  by  swindling,  and  who  gets 
his  pay  in  bad  coin.  Mahometanism  pays  in  pewter  now,  in 
place  of  silver  and  gold.  The  lords  of  the  world  have  run  to 
seed.  The  powerless  old  sword  frightens  nobody  now  — the 
steel  is  turned  to  pewtcn-  too,  somehow,  and  will  no  longer  shear 
a Christian  head  off  an}"  shoulders.  In  the  Crusades  my  wicked 
syrn[)athies  have  always  been  with  the  Turks.  They  seem  to 
me  the  best  Christians  of  the  two  ; more  humane,  less  brutally 
jiresumptuous  aliout  their  own  merits,  and  more  generous  in 
esteeming  their  neighbors.  As  far  as  I can  get  at  the  authentic 
story,  Saladin  is  a pearl  of  refinement  compared  to  the  brutal 
beef-eating  Richard  — about  whom  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  led  all 
the  world  astray. 

When  shall  we  have  a real  account  of  those  times  and  heroes 

— no  good-humored  pageant,  like  those  of  the  Scott  romances 

— but  a real  authentic"  story  to  instruct  and  frighten  honest 
people  of  the  present  day,  and  make  them  thankful  that  the 
grocer  governs  the  world  now  in  place  of  the  baron  ? Mean- 
while a man  of  tender  feelings  may  be  pardoned  for  twaddling 
a little  ovei  this  sad  spectacle  of  the  decay  of  two  of  the  great 
institutions  of  the  world.  Knighthood  is  gone  — amen  it 
expired  with  dignity,  its  face  to  the  foe  : and  old  Mahometanism 
is  lingering  about  just  ready  to  drop.  But  it  is  unseemly  to  see 
such  a Grand  Potentate  in  such  a state  of  decay : the  son  of 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


367 


Bajazet  Ilclerim  insolvent ; the  descendants  of  the  Prophet 
bullied  by  Calraucs  and  English  and  whippersnapper  French- 
inen  ; the  Fountain  of  Magnificence  done  up,  and  obliged  to 
coin  pewter ! Think  of  the  poor  dear  houris  in  Paradise,  how 
sad  the}^  must  look  as  the  arrivals  of  the  Faithful  become  less 
and  less  frequent  eveij  day.  I can  fancy  the  place  beginning 
to  wear  the  fatal  Vauxhall  look  of  the  Seraglio,  and  which  has 
pursued  me  ever  since  I saw  it : tlie  fountains  of  eternal  wine 
are  beginning  to  run  rather  dr}',  and  of  a questionable  liquor ; 
the  ready-roasted-meat  trees  may  cry,  “ Come  eat  me,”  every 
now  and  then,  in  a faint  voice,  without  any  gravy  in  it  — but 
the  Faithful  begin  to  doubt  about  the  quality  of  the  victuals. 
Of  nights  you  may  see  the  houris  sitting  sadly  under  them, 
darning  their  faded  muslins  : Ali,  Omar,  and  the  Imaums  are 
reconciled  and  have  gloomy  consultations  : and  the  Chief  of  the 
Faithful  himself,  the  awful  camel-driver,  the  supernatural  lius- 
band  of  Khadijah,  sits  alone  in  a tumble-down  kiosk,  thinking 
moodily  of  the  destiny  that  is  impending  over  him  ; and  of  the 
day  when  his  gardens  of  bliss  shall  be  as  vacant  as  the  bank- 
rupt Olympus. 

All  the  town  of  Rhodes  has  this  appearance  of  decay  and 
ruin,  except  a few  consuls’  houses  planted  on  the  sea-side,  here 
and  there,  with  bright  flags  flaunting  in  the  sun ; fresh  paint ; 
Fngiish  crockery  ; shining  mahogany,  &c.,  — so  many  emblems 
of  the  new  prosperity  of  their  trade,  while  the  old  inhabitants 
were  going  to  rack  — the  fine  Church  of  St.  John,  converted 
into  a mosque,  is  a ruined  church,  with  a ruined  mosque  inside  ; 
the  fortifications  are  mouldering  away,  as  much  as  time  will  let 
them.  There  was  considerable  bustle  and  stir  about  the  little 
port ; but  it  was  a bustle  of  people  who  looked  for  the  most 
part  to  be  beggars  ; and  I saw  no  shop  in  the  bazaar  that 
seemed  to  have  the  value  of  a pedlar’s  pack. 

I took,  by  way  of  guide,  a young  fellow  from  Berlin,  a jour- 
neyman shoemaker,  who  had  just  l)een  making  a tour  in  vSyria, 
and  who  professed  to  speak  both  Arabic  and  Turkish  quite 
fluently  — which  I thought  he  might  have  learned  when  he  was 
a student  at  college,  before  he  began  his  profession  of  shoe- 
making ; but  I found  he  only  knew  about  three  words  of 
Turkish,  which  were  produced  on  every  occasion,  as  I walked 
under  his  guidance  through  the  desolate  streets  of  the  noble  old 
town.  We  went  out  upon  the  lines  of  fortification,  through  an 
ancient  gate  and  guard-house,  where  once  a chapel  probably 
stood,  and  of  which  the  roofs  vrere  richly  carved  and  gilded. 


368 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


A ragged  squad  of  Turkish  soldiers  lolled  about  the  gate  noT^ 
a couple  of  bo3^s  on  a donkey  ; a grinning  slave  on  a mule  ; a 
pair  of  women  flapping  along  In  yellow  papooshes  ; a basket- 
maker  sitting  under  an  antique  carved  portal,  and  chanting  or 
howling  as  he  plaited  his  osiers  : a peaceful  well  of  water,  at 
which  knights’  chargers  had  drunk,  and  at  which  the  double- 
bo}^ed  donkey  was  now  refreshing  himself — w^ould  have  made 
a pretty  picture  for  a sentimental  artist.  As  he  sits,  and 
endeavors  to  make  a sketch  of  this  plaintive  little  comed\^,  a 
shabby  dignitaiy  of  the  island  comes  clattering  by  on  a thirt}- 
shilling  horse,  and  two  or  three  of  the  ragged  soldiers  leave 
their  pipes  to  salute  him  as  he  passes  under  the  Gothic  arch- 
way. 

The  astonishing  brightness  and  clearness  of  the  sky  under 
which  the  island  seemed  to  bask,  struck  me  as  surpassing 
an^Thing  I had  seen  — not  even  at  Cadiz,  or  the  Piraeus,  had 
I seen  sands  so  yellow,  or  water  so  magniflcently  blue.  The 
houses  of  the  people  along  the  shore  were  but  poor  tenements, 
with  humble  court-yards  and  gardens  ; but  every  fig-tree  was 
gilded  and  bright,  as  if  it  were  in  an  Hesperian  orchard  ; the 
palms,  planted  here  and  there,  rose  with  a sort  of  halo  of  light 
round  about  them ; the  creepers  on  the  walls  quite  dazzled 
with  the  brillianc}"  of  their  flowers  and  leaves  ; the  people  lay 
in  the  cool  shadows,  happy  and  idle,  with  handsome  solemn 
faces  ; nobod>^  seemed  to  be  at  work  ; they  onl}^  talked  a very 
little,  as  if  idleness  and  silence  were  a condition  of  the  delight- 
ful shining  atmosphere  in  which  they  lived. 

We  went  down  to  an  old  mosque  by  the  sea-shore,  with  a 
cluster  of  ancient  domes  hard  b\^  it,  blazing  in  the  sunshine,  and 
carved  all  over  with  names  of  Allah,  and  titles  of  old  pirates 
and  generals  who  reposed  there.  The  guardian  of  the  mosque 
sat  in  the  garden-court,  upon  a high  wooden  pulpit,  lazily  wmg- 
ging  his  body  to  and  fro,  and  singing  the  praises  of  the  Prophet 
gentl}'  through  his  nose,  as  the  breeze  stirred  through  the  trees 
overhead,  and  cast  chequered  and  changing  shadows  over  the 
paved  court,  and  the  little  fountains,  and  the  nasal  psalmist  on 
ins  perch.  Qn  one  side  was  the  mosque,  into  Avhich  you  could 
see,  with  its  white  walls  and  cool  matted  floor,  and  quaint 
carved  pulpit  and  ornaments,  and  nobod}'  at  pravers.  In  the 
middle  distance  rose  up  the  noble  towers  and  battlements  of 
the  knightly  town,  with  the  deep  sea-line  behind  them. 

It  reall}'  seemed  as  if  everybody  was  to  have  a sort  of  sober 
cheerfulness,  and  must  yield  to  indolence  under  this  charming 
atmosphere.  I went  into  the  courtymrd  b}"  the  sea-shore  (where 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


369 


a few  lazj  ships  were  lying,  with  no  one  on  board),  and  found 
it  was  the  prison  of  the  place.  The  door  was  as  wide  open  as 
Westminster  Hall.  Some  prisoners,  one  or  two  soldiers  and 
functionaries,  and  some  prisoners’  wives,  were  lolling  under  an 
arcade  by  a fountain  ; other  criminals  were  strolling  about  here 
and  there,  their  chains  clinking  quite  cheerfully  : and  they  and 
the  guards  and  officials  came  up  chatting  quite  friendly  to- 
gether, and  gazed  languidl}' over  the  portfolio,  as  I was  endeav- 
oring to  get  the  likeness  of  one  or  two  of  these  comfortable 
malefactors.  One  old  and  wrinkled  she-criminal,  whom  1 had 
selected  on  account  of  the  peculiar  hideousness  of  her  counte- 
nance, covered  it  up  with  a dirty  cloth,  at  which  there  was  a 
general  roar  of  laughter  among  this  good-humored  auditory  of 
cut-throats,  pickpockets,  and  policemen.  The  only  symptom 
of  a prison  about  the  place  was  a door,  across  which  a couple 
of  sentinels  were  stretched,  yawning; ; while  within  lay  three 
freshl3'-caught  pirates,  chained  b}^  the  leg.  The}^  had  com- 
mitted some  murders  of  a ver}'  late  date,  and  were  awaiting 
sentence  ; but  their  wives  were  allowed  to  communicate  freely 
with  them  : and  it  seemed  to  me,  that  if  half  a dozen  friends 
would  set  them  free,  and  the}^  themseh'es  had  energ}'  enough  to 
move,  the  sentinels  would  be  a great  deal  too  lazy  to  walk  after 
them. 

The  combined  influence  of  Rhodes  and  Ramazan,  I suppose, 
had  taken  possession  of  m3’  friend  the  Schuster-gesell  from 
Berlin.  As  soon  as  he  received  his  fee,  he  cut  me  at  once,  and 
went  and  lay  down  b3’  a fountain  near  the  port,  and  ate  grapes 
out  of  a dirty  pocket-handkerchief.  Other  Christian  idlers  lay 
near  him,  dozing,  or  sprawling  in  the  boats,  or  listlessly  munch- 
ing watermelons.  Along  the  cofiTee-houses  of  the  quay  sat 
hundreds  more,  with  no  better  employment ; and  the  captain 
of  the  “ Iberia  ” and  his  officers,  and  several  of  the  passengers 
in  that  famous  steamship,  were  in  this  company,  being  idle 
with  all  their  might.  Two  or  three  adventurous  young  men 
went  off  to  see  the  valle3^  where  the  dragon  was  killed  ; but 
others,  more  susceptible  of  the  real  influence  of  the  island,  I 
am  sure  would  not  have  moved  though  we  had  been  told  that 
the  Colossus  himself  was  taking  a walk  half  a mile  off. 


370 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  WHITE  SQUALL. 

On  deck,  beneath  the  awning, 

I dozing  lay  and  yawning  ; 

It  was  the  graj^  of  dawning, 

Ere  yet  the  sun  arose  ; 

And  above  the  funnel’s  roaring, 

And  the  fitful  wind’s  deploring, 

I heard  the  cabin  snoring 
With  universal  nose. 

I could  hear  the  passengers  snorting^ 

I envied  their  disporting. 

Vainly  I was  courting 
The  pleasure  of  a doze. 

So  I lay,  and  wondered  why  light 
Came  not,  and  watched  the  twilight 
And  the  glimmer  of  the  skylight, 

That  shot  across  the  deck  ; 

And  the  binnacle  pale  and  steady, 

And  the  dull  glimpse  of  the  dead-eye, 
And  the  sparks  in  fiery  eddy. 

That  whirled  from  the  chimney  neck : 
In  our  jovial  floating  prison 
There  was  sleep  from  fore  to  mizzen. 
And  never  a star  had  risen 
The  haz}'  sk}^  to  speck. 

Strange  company  we  harbored  ; 

We’d  a hundred  Jews  to  larboard, 
Unwashed,  uncombed,  unbarbered, 

Jews  black,  and  brown,  and  gray; 
With  terror  it  would  seize  ye. 

And  make  your  souls  uneasy. 

To  see  those  Rabbis  greas}". 

Who  did  nought  but  scratch  and  pray 
Their  dirty  children  pucking. 

Their  dirty  saucepans  cooking. 

Their  dirty  fingers  hooking 
Their  swarming  fleas  away. 


FROM  CORNHJLL  TO  CAIRO. 


371 


To  starboard  Turks  and  Greeks  were, 
Wliiskered,  and  In’own  their  cheeks  were, 
Enormous  wide  their  breeks  were, 

Their  pipes  did  put!  alway  ; 

Each  on  his  mat  allotted, 

In  silence  smoked  and  scpiatted. 

Whilst  round  their  children  trotted, 

In  pretty,  pleasant  play. 

He  can’t  but  smile  who  traces 
The  smiles  on  those  brown  faces. 

And  the  pretty  prattling  graces 
Of  those  small  heathens  gay. 


And  so  the  hours  kept  tolling. 

And  through  the  ocean  rolling. 

Went  the  brave  “ Iberia”  bowling 

Before  the  break  of  day 

When  a Squall  upon  a sudden 
Came  o’er  the  waters  scudding  ; 

And  the  clouds  began  to  gather. 

And  the  sea  was  lashed  to  lather. 

And  the  lowering  thunder  grumbled. 
And  the  lightning  jumped  and  tumbled, 
And  the  ship,  and  all  the  ocean. 

Woke  up  in  wild  commotion. 

Then  the  wind  set  up  a howling. 

And  the  poodle-dog  a yowling. 

And  the  cocks  began  a crowing. 

And  the  old  cow  raised  a lowing. 

As  she  heard  the  tempest  blowing ; 

And  fowls  and  geese  did  cackle. 

And  the  cordage  and  the  tackle 
Began  to  shriek  and  crackle  ; 

And  the  spray  dashed  o’er  the  funnels, 
And  down  the  deck  in  runnels  ; 

And  the  rushing  water  soaks  all. 

From  the  seamen  in  the  fo’ksal 
To  the  stokers,  whose  black  faces 
Peer  out  of  their  bed-places  ; 

And  the  captain  he  was  bawling. 

And  the  sailors  pulling,  hauling ; 

And  the  quarter-deck  tarpauling 
Was  shivered  in  the  squalling ; 


372’ 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


And  the  passengers  awaken, 

Most  pitifull3’  shaken  ; 

And  the  steward  jumps  up,  and  hastens 
For  the  necessary  basins. 

Tiien  the  Greeks  thej^  groaned  and  quivered^ 
And  they  knelt,  and  moaned,  and  shivered. 

As  the  plunging  w^aters  met  them. 

And  splashed  and  overset  them  ; 

And  the}’  call  in  their  emergence 
Upon  countless  saints  and  virgins ; 

And  their  marrowbones  are  bended, 

And  the}"  think  the  world  is  ended. 

And  the  Turkish  women  for’ard 
Were  frightened  and  behorror’d  ; 

And,  shrieking  and  bewildering. 

The  mothers  clutched  their  children  ; 

The  men  sung  Allah  lllah  ! 

Mashallah  Bismillah ! ” 

As  the  w’arring  waters  doused  them, 

And  splashed  them  and  soused  them ; 

And  they  called  upon  the  Prophet, 

And  thought  but  little  of  it. 

Then  all  the  fleas  in  Jewry 
Jumped  up  and  bit  like  fury ; 

And  the  progeny  of  Jacob 
Did  on  the  main-deck  wake  up 
(I  wot  those  greasy  Rabbins 
Would  never  pay  for  cabins)  ; 

And  each  man  moaned  and  jabbered  in 
His  filthy  Jewish  gaberdine. 

In  woe  and  lamentation, 

And  howding  consternation. 

And  the  splashing  water  drenches 
Their  dirty  brats  and  wenches  ; 

And  they  crawl  from  bales  and  benches, 

In  a hundred  thousand  stenches. 

This  was  the  White  Squall  famous 
Which  latterly  o’ercame  us. 

And  which  all  will  well  remember 
On  the  28th  September  ; 


FROM  CORXniLL  TO  CAIRO. 


373 


When  a Prussian  Captain  of  Lancers 
(Those  tight-laced,  whiskered  prancers) 
Came  on  the  deck  astonished, 

B3’  that  wild  squall  admonished. 

And  wondering  cried.  Potztausend  ! 

W ie  ist  der  Sturm  jetzt  brausend  ! ” 

And  looked  at  C'aptain  Lewis, 

Who  calrnlj"  stood  and  blew  his 
Cigar  in  all  the  bustle. 

And  scorned  the  tempest’s  tussle. 

And  oft  we’ve  thought  thereafter 
How  he  beat  the  storm  to  laughter ; 

For  well  he  knew  his  vessel 
With  that  vain  wind  could  wrestle  ; 

And  when  a wreck  we  thought  her 
And  doomed  ourselves  to  slaughter, 

How  gayl}’  he  fought  her. 

And  through  the  hubbub  brought  her, 

And,  as  the  tempest  caught  her. 

Cried,  “ George  ! some  brandy  and  water  ! 

And  when,  its  force  expended. 

The  harmless  storm  was  ended. 

And,  as  the  sunrise  splendid 
Came  blushing  o’er  the  sea  ; 

I thought,  as  day  was  breaking, 

M3'  little  girls  were  waking. 

And  smiling,  and  making 
A pra3'er  at  home  for  me. 


CHAPTER  X. 

TELMESSUS.  BEYROUT. 

There  should  have  been  a poet  in  our  company  to  describe 
that  charming  little  bay  of  Glaucus,  into  which  we  entered  on  the 
26th  of  September,  in  the  first  steamboat  that  ever  disturbed  its 
beautiful  waters.  A^ou  can’t  put  down  in  prose  that  delicious 
episode  of  natural  poetry  ; it  ought  to  be  done  in  a S3'mphon3g 
full  of  sweet  melodies  and  swelling  harmonies  ; or  sung  in  % 


374 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


strain  of  clear  crystal  iambics,  such  as  Milnes  knows  how  to 
write.  A mere  map,  drawn  in  words,  gives  the  mind  no  notion 
of  that  exquisite  nature.  What  do  mountains  become  in  type, 
or  rivers  in  Mr.  Vizetelly’s  best  brevier?  Here  lies  the  sweet 
bay,  gleaming  peaceful  in  the  rosy  sunshine  : green  islands  dip 
here  and  there  in  its  waters  ; purple  mountains  swell  circling 
round  it;  and  towards  them,  rising  from  the  bay,  stretches  a 
rich  green  plain,  fruitful  with  herbs  and  various  foliage,  in  the 
midst  of  which  the  white  houses  twinkle.  I can  see  a little 
minaret,  and  some  spreading  palm-trees  ; but,  beyond  these, 
the  desci'iption  would  answer  as  well  for  Bantry  Bay  as  for 
Makri.  You  could  write  so  far,  na}',  much  more  particularly 
and  grandl}’,  without  seeing  the  place  at  all,  and  after  reading 
Beaufort’s  “ Caramania,”  which  gives  you  not  the  least  notion 
of  it. 

Suppose  the  great  hydrographer  of  the  Admiralt}’  himself 
can’t  describe  it,  who  surveyed  the  place  ; suppose  Mr.  Fel- 
lowes,  who  discovered  it  afterwards  — suppose,  I sajq  Sir  John 
Fellowes,  Knt.,  can’t  do  it  (and  I defy  any  man  of  imagination 
to  get  an  impression  of  Telmessus  from  his  book)  — can  you, 
vain  man,  hope  to  try?  The  effect  of  the  artist,  as  I take  it, 
ought  to  be,  to  produce  upon  his  hearer’s  mind,  by  his  art,  an 
effect  something  similar  to  that  produced  on  his  own  b}'  the 
sight  of  the  natural  object.  Only  music,  or  the  best  poetry,  can 
do  this.  Keats’s  Ode  to  the  Grecian  Urn  ” is  the  best  descrip- 
tion I know  of  that  sweet,  old,  silent  I’uin  of  Telmessus.  After 
3’ou  have  once  seen  it,  the  remembrance  remains  with  ,vou,  like  a 
tune  from  IMozart,  which  he  seems  to  have  caught  out  of  heaven, 
and  which  rings  sweet  harmony  in  your  ears  for  ever  after  ! It’s 
a ])enefit  for  all  after  life  ! You  have  but  to  shut  your  eves, 
and  think,  and  recall  it,  and  the  delightful  vision  comes  smil- 
ing back,  to  vour  order!  — the  divine  air  — the  delicious  little 
pageant,  which  nature  sot  liefore  you  on  this  hick}^  da}’. 

Here  is  flic  entry  made  in  the  note-book  on  the  eventful 
day  : — ‘‘In  the  morning  steamed  into  the  Bay  of  Glaucus  — 
landed  at  Makri  — cheerful  old  desolate  village  — theatre  by 
the  beautiful  sea-shore  — great  fertility,  oleanders  — a palm- 
tree  in  the  midst  of  the  village,  si)reading  out  like  a Sultan’s 
aigrette  — sculptured  caverns,  or  tombs,  up  the  mountain  — 
camels  over  the  bridge. 

Perhaps  it  is  best  for  a man  of  fancy  to  make  his  own  land- 
scape out  of  these  materials  : to  group  the  couched  camels  under 
the  plane-trees  ; the  little  crowd  of  wandering,  ragged  heathens 
come  down  to  the  calm  water,  to  behold  the  nearing  steamer ; 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


O ^ 


O i 3 


to  fancy  a mountain,  in  the  sides  of  which  some  scores  of 
tombs  are  rudely  carved  ; pillars  and  porticos,  and  Doric  en- 
ta))latnres.  But  it  is  of  the  little  theatre  that  he  must  make 
the  most  beautiful  picture  — a charming’  little  place  of  festival, 
lying  out  on  the  shore,  and  looking  over  the  sweet  bay  and  the 
swelling  purple  islands.  No  theatre-goer  ever  looked  out  on  a 
fairer  scene.  It  encourages  poetry,  idleness,  delicious  sensual 
I'everie.  O Jones  ! friend  of  my  heart ! would  you  not  like  to 
be  a white-robed  (Irec'k,  lolling  languidly  on  the  cool  benches 
here,  and  pouring  compliments  (in  the  Ionic;  dialect)  into  the 
rosy  ears  of  Ne;ei’a?  Instead  of  Jones,  your  name  should  l)e 
lonides  ; insU'ad  of  a silk  hat,  you  should  wear  a cha[)let  of 
roses  in  your  hair:  you  would  not  listen  to  the  choruses  they 
were  singing  on  the  stage,  for  the  voice  of  the  fair  one  would 
be  whispering  a rendezvous  for  the  mesoniihiiais  horais^  and  my 
lonides  would  have  no  ear  for  aught  beside.  A'onder,  in  the 
mountain,  they  would  carve  a Doric  cave  temple,  to  receive 
your  urn  when  all  was  done  : and  you  would  be  accompanied 
thitber  by  a dirge  of  the  surviving  lonidm.  The  caves  of  the 
dead  are  empty  now,  however,  and  their  place  knows  them  not 
ail}’  more  among  the  festal  haunts  of  the  living.  But,  by  way 
of  supplying  the  choric  melodics  sung  here  in  old  time,  one  of 
our  companions  mounted  on  the  scene  and  spouted, 

“My  name  is  Norval.” 

On  the  same  day  we  lay  to  for  a while  at  another  ruined 
theatre,  that  of  Antipliilos.  The  Oxford  men,  fresh  with  recol- 
lections of  the  little-go,  bounded  awa}'  ii[)  the  hill  on  which  it 
lies  to  the  ruin,  measured  the  steps  of  the  theatre,  and  cal- 
culated the  width  of  the  scene ; while  others,  less  active, 
watched  them  with  telescopes  from  the  ship’s  sides,  as  they 
plunged  in  and  out  of  the  stones  and  hollows. 

Two  days  after  the  scene  was  quite  changed.  We  were  out 
of  sight  of  the  classical  country,  and  lay  in  St.  George’s  Ba}', 
behind  a huge  mountain,  upon  which  St.  George  fought  the 
dragon,  and  rescued  the  lovely  Lady  Sabra,  the  King  of  Baby- 
lon’s daughter.  The  Turkish  fleet  was  l.ying  about  us,  com- 
manded b}^  that  Halil  Pacha  whose  two  children  the  two  last 
Sultans  murdered.  The  crimson  flag,  with  the  star  and  cres- 
cent, floated  at  the  stern  of  his  ship.  Our  diplomatist  put  on 
his  uniform  and  cordons,  and  paid  his  Excellency  a visit.  He 
spoke  in  rapture,  when  he  returned,  of  the  beauty  and  order  of 
the  ship,  and  the  urbanity  of  the  infldel  admiral.  He  sent  us 
bottles  of  ancient  Cjq^rus  wine  to  drink  : and  the  captain  of  her 


376 


EASTERN’  SKETCHES. 


Majesty’s  ship,  “Trump,”  alongside  which  we  were  lying, 
confirmed  that  good  opinion  of  the  Capitan  Pasha  which  the 
reception  of  the  above  present  led  us  to  entertain,  relating 
many  instances  of  his  friendliness  and  hospitalities.  Captain 
G— — said  the  Turkish  ships  were  as  well  manned,  as  well 
kept,  and  as  well  manoeuvred,  as  any  vessels  in  any  service  ; 
and  intimated  a desire  to  command  a Turkish  seventy-four, 
and  a perfect  willingness  to  fight  her  against  a French  ship  of 
the  same  size.  But  I heartily  trust  he  will  neither  embrace  the 
Mahometan  opinions,  nor  be  called  upon  to  engage  an}^  sevent}’- 
four  whatever.  If  he  do,  let  us  hope  he  will  have  his  own  men 
to  fight  with.  If  the  crew  of  the  “ Trump”  were  all  like  the  crew 
of  the  captain’s  boat,  they  need  fear  no  two  hundred  and  fifty 
men  out  of  any  country,  with  any  Joinville  at  their  head.  We 
were  carried  on  shore  by  this  boat.  For  two  3^ears,  during 
which  the  “Trump”  had  been  lying  off  Beyrout,  none  of  the 
men  but  these  eight  had  ever  set  foot  on  shore.  Mustn’t  it 
be  a happy  life?  We  were  landed  at  the  bus}"  quay  of  Beyrout, 
flanked  b}"  the  castle  that  the  fighting  old  commodore  half  bat- 
tered down. 

Along  the  Be3"rout  quay's,  civilization  flourishes  under  the 
flags  of  the  consul,  which  are  streaming  out  over  the  3'ellow 
buildings  in  the  clear  air.  Hither  she  brings  from  England  her 
produce  of  marine  stores  and  woollens,  her  crockeries,  her  port- 
able soups,  and  her  bitter  ale.  Hither  she  has  brought  polite- 
ness, and  the  last  modes  from  Paris.  They'  were  exhibited  in 
the  person  of  a pretty'  lady,  superintending  the  great  French 
store,  and  who,  seeing  a stranger  sketching  on  the  quay,  sent  for- 
ward a man  with  a chair  to  accommodate  that  artist,  and  greeted 
him  with  a bow  and  a smile,  such  as  only"  can  be  found  in 
France.  Then  she  fell  to  talking  to  a young  French  officer 
with  a beard,  who  was  greatly"  smitten  with  her.  They  were 
making  love  just  as  they'  do  on  the  Boulevard.  An  Arab  porter 
left  his  bales,  and  the  camel  he  was  unloading,  to  come  and 
look  at  the  sketch.  Two  stumpy,  flat- faced  Turkish  soldiers, 
in  red  caps  and  white  undresses,  peered  over  the  paper.  A 
noble  little  Lebanonian  girl,  with  a deep  yellow  face,  and  curly" 
dun-colored  hair,  and  a blue  tattooed  chin,  and  for  all  clothing 
a little  ragged  shift  of  blue  cloth,  stood  by'  like  a little  statue, 
holding  her  urn,  and  stared  with  wondering  brown  ey'es.  How 
magnificently  blue  the  water  was  ! — how  bright  the  flags  and 
buildings  as  they"  shone  above  it,  and  the  lines  of  the  rigging 
tossing  in  the  bay  ! The  white  crests  of  the  blue  waves  jumped 
and  sparkled  like  quicksilver ; the  shadows  were  as  broad  and 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


377 


cool  as  the  lights  were  brilliant  and  ros}’ ; the  battered  old 
towers  of  the  commodore  looked  quite  cheerful  in  the  delicious 
atmosphere  ; and  the  mountains  be3’ond  were  of  an  ameth^’st 
color.  The  French  officer  and  the  \iidy  went  on  chattering 
quite  happily  about  love,  the  last  new  bonnet,  or  the  battle  of 
Isle^q  or  the  “ Juif  Errant.”  How  neatly  her  gown  and  sleeves 
fitted  her  pretty  little  person  ! We  had  not  seen  a woman  for  a 
month  except  honest  Mrs.  Flanigan,  the  stewardess,  and  the 
ladies  of  our  part^*,  and  the  tips  of  the  noses  of  the  Constanti- 
nople beauties  as  they  passed  by  leering  from  their  yakmacs, 
waddling  and  plapping  in  their  odious  yellow  papooshes. 

And  this  day  is  to  be  marked  with  a second  white  stone, 
for  having  given  the  lucky  writer  of  the  present,  occasion  to 
behold  a second  beauty.  This  was  a native  Syrian  damsel, 
who  bore  the  sweet  naihe  of  Mariam.  So  it  was  she  stood  as 
two  of  us  (I  mention  the  number  for  fear  of  scandal)  took  her 
picture. 

So  it  was  that  the  good-natured  black  cook  looked  behind 
her  young  mistress,  with  a benevolent  grin,  that  011I3'  the  ad- 
mirable Leslie  could  paint. 

Mariam  was  the  sister  of  the  young  guide  whom  we  hired  to 
show  us  through  the  town,  and  to  let  us  be  cheated  in  the  pur- 
chase of  gilt  scarfs,  and  handkerchiefs,  which  strangers  think 
proper  to  bu}".  And  before  the  above  authentic  drawing  could 
be  made,  man}"  were  the  stratagems  tlie  wiH  artists  were 
obliged  to  employ,  to  subdue  the  shyness  of  the  little  Mariam.  In 
the  first  place,  she  would  stand  behind  the  door  (from  which  in 
the  darkness  her  beautiful  black  e}'es  gleamed  out  like  penii}" 
tapei's)  ; nor  could  the  entreaties  of  her  brother  and  mamma 
])ring  her  from  that  hiding-place.  In  order  to  conciliate  the 
latter,  we  began  by  making  a picture  of  her  too  — that  is,  not 
of  her,  who  was  an  enormous  old  fat  woman  in  }^ellow,  quiver- 
ing all  over  with  strings  of  pearls,  and  necklaces  of  sequins, 
and  other  ornaments,  the  which  descended  from  her  neck, 
and  down  her  ample  stomacher:  we  did  not  depict  that  big 
old  woman,  who  would  have  been  frightened  at  an  accurate 
representation  of  her  own  enormity  ; but  an  ideal  being,  all 
grace  and  beauty,  dressed  in  her  costume,  and  still  sim- 
pering before  me  in  my  sketch-book  like  a lad}-  in  a book  of 
fashions. 

This  portrait  was  shown  to  the  old  woman,  who  handed  it 
over  to  the  black  cook,  who,  grinning,  carried  it  to  little  Mariam 
— and  the  result  was,  that  the  }'oung  creature  stepped  forward, 
and  submitted  ; and  has  come  over  to  Europe  as  3 011  see. 


378 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


A very  snug  and 
happy  family  did 
this  of  Mariam’s 
appear  to  be.  If 
you  could  judge  by 
all  the  laughter  and 
giggling,  by  the 
splendor  of  the  wo- 
men’s attire,  by  the 
neatness  of  the  lit- 
tle house,  prettilj' 
decorated  with  ara- 
besque paintings, 
neat  mats,  and  gay 
carpets,  the}'  were 
a family  well  to 
do  in  the  Beyrout 
world,  and  lived 
with  as  much  com- 
fort as  any  Euro- 
peans. They  had 
one  book ; and, 
on  the  wall  of  the 
principal  apart- 
ment, a black  picture  of' the  Virgin,  whose  name  is  borne  by 
pretty  Mariam. 

The  camels  and  the  soldiers,  the  bazaars  and  khans,  the 
fountains  and  awnings,  which  chequer,  with  such  delightful 
vai-iety  of  light  and  shade,  the  alleys  and  markets  of  an  Ori- 
ental town,  are  to  be  seen  in  Beyrout  in  perfection  ; and  an 
artist  might  here  employ  himselt  for  months  with  advantage 
and  pleasure.  A new  costume  was  here  added  to  the  motley 
and  picturesque  assemldy  of  dresses.  This  was  the  dress  of 
the  blue-veiled  women  from  the  Lebanon,  stalking  solemnly 
through  the  umi'kcds,  with  huge  horns,  near  a yard  high,  on 
their  fondieads.  For  Ihonsands  of  years,  since  the  time  the 
Hebrew  prophets  wrote,  these  horns  have  so  been  exalted  in 
the  Lebanon. 

At  night  Captain  Lewis  gave  a splendid  ball  and  supper  to 
the  '‘Trump.”  We  had  the  “Trump’s”  band  to  perform  the 
music  ; and  a grand  sight  it  was  to  see  the  captain  himself 
enthusiastically  leading  on  the  drum.  Blue  lights  and  rockets 
were  burned  from  the  yards  of  our  ship ; which  festive  signals 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO.  379 

^ere  answered  presentl}'  from  the  “ Trump,”  and  from  another 
PAiglish  vessel  in  the  harbor. 

Tliey  must  have  stnick  the  Ca[)itan  Pasha  with  wonder,  for 
he  sent  his  secretary  on  board  of  us  to  inquire  what  the  tire- 
works  meant.  ' And  the  worthy  Turk  iiad  seareel_y  put  his  foot 
on  the  deck,  Avhen  he  found  himself  seized  round  the  waist  by 
one  of  the  'rrum[)’s  ” oflieers,  and  whirling  round  the  deck  in 
a waltz,  to  his  own  amazement,  and  the  liuge  delight  of  the 
company.  11  is  1‘aee  of  wonder  and  gravity,  as  he  went  on 
twirling,  could  not  have  been  exceeded  by  that  of  a dancing 
dervish  at  Scutari ; and  the  manner  in  which  he  managed  to 
enjamher  the  waltz  excited  universal  ap[)lause. 

1 forget  whether  he  accommodated  liimself  to  European  ways 
so  mueh  further  as  to  drink  chanq)agne  at  su[q)er-time  ; to  say 
that  he  did  would  be  telling  tales  out  of  school,  and  might  inter- 
fere with  the  future  advancement  of  that  jolly  dancing  Turk. 

We  made  aequaintanee  with  another  of  the  Sultan’s  sub- 
jects, who,  1 fear,  will  have  occasion  to  doubt  of  the  honor  of 
the  English  nation,  after  the  foul  treachery  with  which  he  was 
treated. 

Among  the  occupiers  of  the  little  bazaar  watehboxes,  ven- 
ders of  embroidered  liandkei’chiefs  and  other  articles  of  showy 
Eastern  haberdasheiy,  was  a good-booking,  neat  young  fellow, 
who  spoke  English  very  Huently,  and  was  particularly  atten- 
tive to  all  the  passengers  on  board  our  ship.  This  gentleman 
was  not  onE  a [locket-handkerehief  merchant  in  the  bazaar,  but 
earned  a further  livelihood  by  letting  out  mules  and  donkej’s  ; 
and  he  kept  a small  lodging-house,  or  inn,  for  travellers,  as  we 
were  informed. 

No  wonder  he  spoke  good  English,  and  was  exceedingly 
polite  and  well-bred  ; for  the  worthy  man  had  iiassed  some 
time  in  England,  and  in  the  best  society  too.  That  humble 
liaberdasher  at  Beju’out  had  been  a lion  here,  at  the  very  best 
houses  of  the  great  people,  and  had  aetuallv  made  his  appear- 
ance at  Windsor,  where  he  was  received  as  a S3ulan  Prince, 
and  treated  with  great  hospitalitv  bv  royalty  itself. 

I don’t  know  what  waggish  propensity  moved  one  of  the 
officers  of  the  “Trump”  to  say  that  there  was  an  equerry  of 
his  Ro3’al  Plighness  the  Prince  on  board,  and  to  point  me  out 
as  the  dignified  personage  in  question.  8o  the  Syrian  Prince 
was  introduced  to  the  royal  equerry,  and  a great  many  compli- 
ments passed  between  us.  I even  had  the  audacit3^  to  state 
that  on  mv  very  last  interview  with  my  lYn  nl  master,  his  Royal 
Highness  had  siiid,  “Colonel  Titmarsh,  when  you  go  to  Bey^ 


380 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


rout,  3"ou  will  make  special  inquiries  regarding  my  interesting 
friend  Cogia  Hassan.” 

Poor  Cogia  TIassan  (I  forget  whether  that  was  his  name, 
hut  it  is  as  good  as  another)  was  overpowered  with  this  ro3^al 
message  ; and  we  had  an  intimate  conversation  together,  at 
which  the  waggish  officer  of  the  “Trump”  assisted  with  the 
greatest  glee. 

But  see  the  consequences  of  deceit ! The  next  da}",  as  we 
were  getting  under  w"a}',  who  should  come  on  board  but  my 
friend  the  Syrian  Prince,  most  eager  for  a last  interview  with 
the  Windsor  equeny  ; and  he  begged  me  to  cany  liis  protes- 
tations of  unalterable  Odelity  to  the  gracious  consort  of  her 
Majesty.  Nor  was  this  all.  Cogia  Hassan  actualty  produced 
a great  box  of  sweetmeats,  of  which  he  begged  my  excellency 
to  accept,  and  a little  figure  of  a doll  dressed  in  the  costume  of 
Lebanon.  Then  the  punishment  of  imposture  began  to  be  felt 
severely  b}*  me.  How  to  accept  the  poor  devil’s  sweetmeats? 
How  to  refuse  them?  And  as  we  know  that  one  fib  leads  to 
another,  so  I was  obliged  to  support  the  first  falsehood  b}" 
another;  and  putting  on  a dignified  air — “Cogia  Hassan,” 
savs  1,  “I  am  surpriscul  you  don’t  know  the  habits  of  the 
British  Court  better,  and  are  not  aware  that  our  gracious  mas- 
ter solemnly  forbids  his  servants  to  accept  an}*  sort  of  back- 
sheesh upon  our  travels.” 

8o  Prince  Cogia  Hassan  went  over  the  side  with  his  chest 
of  sweetmeats,  but  insisted  on  leaving  the  doll,  which  ma}"  be 
wortli  twopence-halfpennv  ; of  wliicli,  and  of  the  costume  of 
the  w"omen  of  Lebanon,  the  following  is  an  accurate  likeness.* 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A DAY  AND  NIGHT  IN  SYRIA. 

When,  after  being  for  five  whole  weeks  at  sea,  with  a general 
belief  that  at  the  end  of  a few  days  the  marine  malady  leaves 
}’ou  for  good,  you  find  that  a brisk  wind  and  a heavy  rolling 
sw"ell  create  exactly  the  same  inward  effects  which  the}"  occa- 
sioned at  the  very  commencement  of  the  voyage  — you  begin 
to  fancy  that  you  are  unfairly  dealt  with  : and  I,  for  my  part, 
had  thought  of  complaining  to  the  company  of  this  atrocious 

* This  refers  to  an  illustrated  edition  of  the  work. 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


381 


violation  of  the  rules  of  their  prospectus  ; but  we  were  per- 
petually coming  to  anchor  in  various  ports,  at  which  intervals 
of  peace  and  good  humor  were  restored  to  us. 

On  the  3rd  ol*  October  our  cable  rushed  with  a huge  rattle 
into  the  blue  s(‘a  belbre  Jaffa,  at  a distance  of  considerably 
more  than  a mile  off  the  town,  which  lay  before  us  veiy  clear, 
Avith  the  Hags  of  the  consuls  Haring  in  the  bi-ight  sk}’,  and 
making  a cheerful  and  hosi)itable  show.  The  houses  a great 
hea[)  of  sun-baked  stones,  surmounted  here  and  there  by  mina- 
rets and  countless  little  whiU'washed  domes  ; a few  date-trees 
st)read  out  their  fan-like  heads  over  these  dull-looking  build- 
ings ; long  sands  stretched  away  on  either  side,  Avith  Ioav  purple 
hills  behi'ud  them  ; Ave  could  see  S[)ccks  of  camels  crawling  over 
these  yelloAV  plains  ; and  those  persons  avIio  Avere  about  to  land, 
had  the  leisure  to  behold  the  sea-spray  (lashing  over  the  sands, 
and  OAxr  a heap  of  black  rocks  which  lie  before  the  entry  to 
the  tOAvn.  The  SAvell  is  Axuy  great,  the  passage  between  the 
rocks  narrow,  and  the  danger  sometimes  considerable.  So  the 
guide  began  to  entertain  the  ladies  and  other  passengers  in 
the  huge  countiy  l)oat  Avhich  bi'ought  us  from  the  steamer,  Avith 
an  agreeable  story  of  a lieutenant  and  eight  seamen  of  one  of  her 
Majesty’s  ships,  avIio  Avere  upset,  dashed  to  pieces,  and  drowned 
upon  these  rocks,  through  which  tAvo  men  and  two  boys,  with  a 
very  moderate  portion  of  clothing,  each  standing  and  pulling 
half  an  oar  — there  Avere  but  two  oars  between  them,  and  an- 
other ly’  Avav  of  rudder  — Avere  endeavoring  to  guide  us. 

When  the  danger  of  the  rocks  and  surf  Avas  passed,  came 
another  danger  of  the  hideous  brutes  in  broAvn  skins  and  the 
bi'iefest  shirts,  Avho  came  tOAvards  the  boat,  straddling  through 
the  water  Avith  outstretched  arms,  grinning  and  yelling  their 
Arab  invitations  to  mount  their  shoulders.  I think  these  fel- 
loAvs  frightened  the  ladies  still  more  than  the  rocks  and  the 
surf ; but  the  poor  creatures  Avere  obliged  to  submit ; and, 
trembling,  were  accommodated  somehow  upon  the  mahogany 
backs  of  these  rulilans,  carried  through  the  shallows,  and  (lung 
up  to  a ledge  before  the  city  gate,  where  crowds  more  of  dark 
people  were  swarming,  howling  after  their  fashion.  The  gen- 
tlemen, meanwhile,  were  having  arguments  about  the  eternal 
backsheesh  with  the  roaring  Arab  boatmen  ; and  I recall  with 
wonder  and  delight  especialhy  the  curses  and  screams  of  one 
small  and  extremely  loud-lunged  fellow,  who  expressed  dis- 
content at  receiving  a liAX,  instead  of  a six  piastre  piece.  But 
how  is  one  to  know,  Avithout  possessing  the  language  ? Both 
coins  are  made  of  a greasy  peAvtery  sort  of  tin ; and  I thought 


382 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


the  biggest  was  the  most  valuable  : but  the  fellow  showecl  c 
sense  of  their  value,  and  a disposition  seemingly  to  cut  a 
man’s  throat  who  did  not  understand  it.  Men’s  throats  have 
been  cut  for  a less  dilference  before  now. 

Being  cast  upon  the  ledge,  the  first  care  of  our  gallantry  was 
to  look  after  the  ladies,  who  were  scared  and  astonished  by  the 
naked  savage  brutes,  who  were  shouldering  the  poor  things  to 
and  fro ; and  bearing  them  through  these  and  a dark  archwa}’, 
we  came  into  a street  crammed  with  donkeys  and  their  packs 
and  drivers,  and  towering  camels  with  leering  eyes  looking  into 
the  second-floor  rooms,  and  huge  splay  feet,  through  which 
mesdames  et  mesdemoiselles  were  to  be  conducted.  We  made  a 
rush  at  the  first  open  door,  and  passed  comfortabl}'  under  the 
heels  of  some  horses  gathered  under  the  arched  court,  and  up 
a stone  staircase,  which  turned  out  to  be  that  of  the  Russian 
consul’s  house.  Ills  [)eople  welcomed  us  most  cordiall>^  to  his 
abode,  and  the  ladies  and  the  luggage  (objects  of  our  solicitude) 
were  led  up  man}'  stairs  and  across  several  terraces  to  a most 
comfortable  little  room,  under  a dome  of  its  own,  where  the 
representative  of  Russia  sat.  Women  with  brown  faces  and 
draggle-tailed  coats  and  turbans,  and  wondering  eyes,  and  no 
sta}'s,  and  blue  beads  and  gold  chains  hanging  round  their 
necks,  came  to  gaze,  as  they  passed,  upon  the  fair  neat  English 
women.  Blowsy  black  cooks  pulling  over  fires  and  the  strangest 
pots  and  pans  on  the  terraces,  children  paddling  about  in  long 
striped  robes,  interrupted  their  sports  or  labors  to  come  and 
stare  ; and  the  consul,  in  his  cool  domed  chamber,  with  a lat- 
tice ovei'looking  the  sea,  with  clean  mats,  and  pictures  of  the 
Emperor,  the  Virgin,  and  St.  George,  received  the  strangers 
with  smiling  courtesies,  regaling  the  ladies  with  pomegranates 
and  sugar,  the  gentlemen  with  pipes  of  tobacco,  whereof  the 
fragrant  tubes  were  three  yards  long. 

The  Russian  amenities  concluded,  we  left  the  ladies  still 
under  the  comfortable,  cool  dome  of  the  Russian  consulate,  and 
went  to  see  our  own  reiiresentative.  The  streets  of  the  little 
town  are  neither  agreeable  to  horse  nor  foot  travellers.  Many 
of  the  streets  are  mere  flights  of  rough  steps,  leading  abruptly 
into  private  houses  : you  [>ass  under  archways  and  passages 
numberless;  a steep,^  dirty  labyrinth  of  stone-vaulted  stables 
and  sheds  occupies  the  ground-floor  of  the  habitations  ; and  3^011 
pass  from  flat  to  flat  of  the  terraces  ; at  various  irregular  cor^ 
ners  of  which,  little  chambers,  with  little  private  domes,  are 
erected,  and  the  people  live  seemingl}'  as  much  upon  the  terracQ 
aa  in  the  room. 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


OQO 

ooo 

We  found  the  English  consul  in  a queer  little  arched  cham- 
ber, with  a strange  old  [)icture  of  the  King’s  arms  to  decorate 
one  side  of  it : and  here  the  consul,  a demure  old  man,  dressed 
in  red  flowing  robes,  witli  a feeble  janissaiy  bearing  a shabby 
tin-mounted  statl,  or  mace,  to  denote  his  oftice,  received  such  of 
our  nation  as  came  to  him  for  hospitality,  lie  distributed  pipes 
and  coffee  to  all  and  every  one  ; he  made  us  a present  of  his 
house  and  all  his  beds  for  the  night,  and  went  himself  to  lie 
([uietly  on  the  terrace  ; and  for  all  this  hospitality  he  declined 
to  receive  any  reward  from  us,  and  said  he  was  but  doing  his 
duty  in  taking  us  in.  This  worthy  man,  I thought,  must  doubt- 
less be  very  well  paid  by  our  ( loverument  for  making  such  sacri- 
llces  ; but  it  a[)[)cars  that  he  does  not  get  one  single  farthing, 
and  that  the  greater  number  of  our  J^evant  consuls  are  paid 
at  a similar  rate  of  ea.sy  remunei-ation.  If  we  have  bad  consular 
agents,  have  wo  a laght  to  comi)lain?  If  the  worthy  gentlemen 
cheat  occasionally,  can  we  reas(Miably  be  angry?  Rut  in  travel- 
ling through  these  countries,  English  [)eople,  who  don’t  take 
into  consideration  the  miseralde  [)overtv  and  scant}'  resources 
of  their  countiT,  and  are  apt  to  brag  and  be  proud  of  it,  have 
their  vanity  hurt  b}'  seeing  the  rei)resentatives  of  eveiy  nation 
but  their  own  well  and  decently  maintained,  and  feel  ashamed 
at  sitting  down  under  the  shabby  protection  of  our  mean  con 
sular  Hag. 

The  active  3'oung  men  of  our  party  had  been  on  shore  long 
before  us,  and  seized  upon  all  the  available  horses  in  the  town  ; 
but  we  relied  upon  a letter  from  Halil  Pacha,  enjoining  all  gov- 
ernors and  pashas  to  help  us  in  all  ways  : and  hearing  we  were 
the  bearers  of  this  document,  the  cadi  and  vice-governor  of 
Jaffa  came  to  wait  upon  the  head  of  our  party ; declared  that  it 
was  his  delight  and  honor  to  set  eyes  upon  us  ; that  he  would 
do  everything  in  the  world  to  serve  us  ; that  there  were  no 
liorses,  unluckily,  but  he  would  send  and  get  some  in  three 
hours  ; and  so  left  us  with  a world  of  grinning  liows  and  many 
choice  compliments  from  one  side  to  the  other,  which  came  to 
each  filtered  through  an  obsequious  interpreter.  But  hours 
passed,  and  the  clatter  of  horses’  hoofs  was  not  heard.  We  had 
our  dinner  of  eggs  and  flaps  of  bread,  and  the  sunset  gun  fired  : 
we  had  our  pipes  and  cotfee  again,  and  the  night  fell.  Is  this 
man  throw'ing  dirt  upon  us?  we  began  to  think.  Is  he  laugh- 
ing at  our  beards,  and  are  our  mothers’  graves  ill-treated 
b}'  this  smiling,  swindling  cadi?  We  determined  to  go  and 
seek  in  his  own  den  this  shuffling  dispenser  of  infidel  justice. 
This  time  we  would  be  no  more  bamboozled  by  compliments ; 


384 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


but  we  would  use  the  language  of  stern  expostulation,  and, 
being  roused,  would  let  the  rascal  hear  the  roar  of  the  indignant 
British  lion  ; so  we  rose  up  in  our  wrath.  The  poor  consul  got 
a lamp  for  us  with  a bit  of  wax-candle,  such  as  I wonder  his 
means  could  afford  ; the  shabby  janissary  marched  ahead  with 
his  tin  mace  ; the  tw^o  laquais-de-place,  that  two  of  our  company 
had  hired,  stepped  forward,  each  with  an  old  sabre,  and  we  went 
clattering  and  stumbling  down  the  streets  of  the  town,  in  order 
to  seize  upon  this  cadi  in  his  own  divan,  I was  glad,  for  my 
part  (though  outwardly  majestic  and  indignant  in  demeanor), 
that  the  horses  had  not  come,  and  that  we  had  a chance  of  see- 
ing this  little  queer  glimpse  of  Oriental  life,  which  the  magis- 
trate’s faithlessness  procured  for  us. 

As  piety  forbids  the  Turks  to  eat  during  the  weary  daylight 
hours  of  tlie  Ramazan,  they  spend  their  time  profitably  in  sleep- 
ing until  the  welcome  sunset,  when  the  town  wakens : all  the 
lanterns  are  lighted  up  ; all  the  pipes  begin  to  puff,  and  the 
narghiles  to  bubble  ; all  the  sour-milk-and-sherbet-men  begin 
to  yell  out  the  excellence  of  their  wares  ; all  the  frying-pans  in 
the  little  dirty  cookshops  begin  to  friz,  and  the  pots  to  send 
forth  a steam  : and  through  this  dingy,  ragged,  bustling,  beg- 
garly, cheerful  scene,  we  began  now  to  march  towards  the  Bow 
Street  of  Jaffa.  We  bustled  through  a crowded  narrow  arch- 
w^a}'  which  led  to  the  cadi’s  police-office,  entered  the  little  room, 
atrociously  perfumed  with  musk,  and  passing  by  the  rail-board, 
where  the  common  sort  stood,  mounted  the  stage  upon  which 
his  worship  and  friends  sat,  and  squatted  down  on  the  divans 
in  stern  and  silent  dignity.  His  honor  ordered  us  coffee,  his 
countenance  evidently  showing  considerable  alarm.  A black 
slave,  whose  duty  seemed  to  be  to  prepare  this  beverage  in  a 
side-room  with  a furnace,  prepared  for  each  of  us  about  a tea- 
spoonful of  the  liquor : his  worship’s  clerk,  I presume,  a tall 
Turk  of  a noble  aspect,  presented  it  to  us  ; and  having  lapped 
up  the  little  modicum  of  drink,  the  British  lion  began  to  speak. 

All  the  other  travellers  (said  the  lion  with  perfect  reason)  have 
good  horses  and  are  gone  ; the  Russians  have  got  horses,  the 
Spaniards  have  horses,  the  English  have  horses,  but  we,  we 
vizirs  in  our  countiy,  coming  wdth  letters  of  Halil  Pacha,  are 
laughed  at,  spit  upon  ! Are  Halil  Pacha’s  letters  dirt,  that  }'ou 
attend  to  them  in  this  w'aj’?  Are  British  lions  dogs  that  you 
treat  them  so?  — and  so  on.  This  speech  with  many  variations 
was  made  on  our  side  for  a quarter  of  an  hour ; and  we  finally 
swore  that  unless  the  horses  were  forthcoming  we  would  write 
to  Halil  Pacha  the  next  morning,  and  to  his  Excellency  the 


FROM  CORN  HILL  TO  CAIRO. 


385 


English  Minister  at  the  Sublime  Porte.  Then  3'ou  should  have 
lieard  the  chorus  of  Turks  in  reply:  a dozen  voices  rose  up 
from  the  divan,  shouting,  screaming,  ejaculating,  expectorating, 
(the  Arabic  spoken  language  seems  to  require  a great  emplov- 
ment  of  the  two  latter  oratorical  methods) , and  uttering  what 
the  meek  interpreter  did  not  translate  to  us,  but  what  I dare 
sa}'  were  by  no  means  complimentarv  phrases  towards  us  and 
our  nation.  Finally,  the  palaver  concluded  by  the  cadi  declar- 
ing that  by  the  will  of  heaven  horses  should  be  forthcomino;  at 
three  o’clock  in  the  morning ; and  that  if  not,  why,  then,  we 
might  write  to  Halil  Pacha. 

This  posed  us,  and  we  rose  up  and  haughtily  took  leave. 
I should  like  to  know  that  fellow’s  real  opinion  of  us  lions 
very  much  : and  especially  to  have  had  the  translation  of  the 
speeches  of  a huge-I)reeched  turbaned  roaring  intidel,  who 
looked  and  s[)oke  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  Bing  us  all  into 
the  sea,  which  was  hoarsely  murmuriug  under  our  windows  an 
accompaniment  to  the  concert  within. 

We  then  marched  through  the  bazaars,  that  were  lofty  and 
grim,  and  pretH  full  of  people.  In  a desolate  broken  building, 
some  hundreds  of  children  were  playing  and  singing ; in  man}' 
corners  sat  parties  over  their  water-pipes,  one  of  whom  eveiy 
now  and  then  would  begin  twanging  out  a most  queer  chant ; 
others  there  were  placing  at  casino  — a crowd  squatted  around 
the  squalling  gamblers,  and  talking  and  looking  on  with  eager 
interest.  In  one  place  of  the  bazaar  we  found  a hundred  people 
at  least  listening  to  a story-teller,  who  delivered  his  tale  with 
excellent  action,  voice,  and  volubility  - in  another  the}'  were 
playing  a sort  of  thimblerig  with  cotfee-cups,  all  intent  upon  the 
game,  and  the  player  himself  very  wild  lest  one  of  our  party, 
who  had  discovered  where  the  pea  la}',  should  tell  the  company. 
The  devotion  and  energy  with  which  all  these  pastimes  were 
pursued,  struck  me  as  much  as  anything.  These  people  have 
been  playing  thimblerig  and  casino  ; that  story-teller  has  been 
shouting  his  tale  of  Antar  for  forty  years  ; and  they  are  just  as 
happy  with  this  amusement  now  as  when  first  they  tried  it.  Is 
there  no  ennui  in  the  Eastern  countries,  and  are  blue-devils  not 
allowed  to  go  abroad  there? 

From  the  bazaars  we  went  to  see  the  house  of  Mustapha, 
said  to  be  the  best  house  and  the  greatest  man  of  Jaffa.  But 
the  great  man  had  absconded  suddenly,  and  had  fled  into 
Egypt.  The  Sultan  had  made  a demand  upon  him  for  sixteen 
thousand  purses,  80,000/.  — Mustapha  retired  — the  Sultan 
pounced  down  upon  his  house,  and  his  goods,  his  horses  and 


386 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


his  mules.  His  harem  was  desolate.  Mr.  Milnes  could  have 
written  six  affecting  poems,  had  he  been  with  us,  on  the  dark 
loneliness  of  that  violated  sanetuaiy.  We  passed  from  hall  to 
hall,  terrace  to  terrace  — a few  fellows  were  slumbering  on  the 
naked  floors,  and  scarce  turned  as  we  went  b}^  them.  We 
entered  Mustapha’s  particular  divan  — there  was  the  raised 
floor,  but  no  bearded  friends  squatting  away  the  night  of  Rama- 
zan ; there  was  the  little  coffee  furnace,  but  where  was  the 
slave  and  the  coffee  and  the  glowing  embers  of  the  pipes  ? 
Mustapha’s  favorite  passages  from  the  Koran  were  still  painted 
up  on  the  walls,  but  nobody  was  the  wiser  for  them.  We 
walked  over  a sleeping  negro,  and  opened  the  windows  which 
looked  into  his  gardens.  The  horses  and  donke3^s,  the  camels 
and  mules  were  picketed  there  below,  but  where  is  the  said 
Mustaplia?  Ph'om  the  frying-pan  of  the  Porte,  has  he  not 
fallen  into  the  fire  of  Mehemet  Ali?  And  which  is  best,  to  broil 
or  to  fry  ? If  it  be  but  to  read  the  “ Arabian  Nights  ” again  on 
getting  home,  it  is  good  to  have  made  this  little  voyage  and 
seen  these  strange  places  and  faces. 

Then  we  went  out  through  the  arched  lowering  gateway  of 
the  town  into  the  plain  beyond,  and  that  was  another  famous 
and  brilliant  scene  of  the  Arabian  Nights.”  The  heaven  shone 
with  a marvellous  brillianc}’ — the  [)lain  disappeared  far  in  the 
haze  — the  towers  and  battlements  of  the  town  rose  black 
against  the  sky  — old  outhuidish  trees  rose  up  here  and  there  — 
cliini[)S  of  camels  were  couched  in  the  rare  herbage  — dogs  were 
baying  about  — groups  of  men  lay  sleeping  under  their  haicks 
round  about  — round  about  the  tall  gates  many  lights  were 
twinkling  — and  they  brought  us  water-pipes  and  sherbet  — and 
we  wondered  to  think  that  London  was  only  three  weeks  off. 

Then  came  the  night  at  the  consul’s.  The  poor  demure  old 
gentleman  brought  out  his  mattresses  ; and  the  ladies  sleeping 
round  on  the  divans,  we  hy  down  quite  happ3^ ; and  I for  m}^ 
part  intended  to  make  as  delightful  dreams  as  Alnaschar ; but 
— lo,  the  delicate  mosquito  sounded  his  horn : the  active  flea 
junq)cd  up,  and  came  to  feast  on  Christian  flesh  (the  Eastern 
flea  bites  more  bitterly  than  the  most  savage  bug  in  Christen- 
dom), and  the  bug  — oh,  the  accursed!  Why  was  he  made? 
What  duty  has  that  infamous  ruffian  to  perform  in  the  world, 
save  to  make  people  wretched?  Only  Bulwer  in  his  most  pa- 
thetic style  could  describe  the  miseries  of  that  night  — the 
moaning,  the  groaning,  the  cui'sing,  the  tumbling,  the  blistering, 
the  infamous  despair  and  degradation  1 I heard  all  the  cocks 
in  Jaffa  crow ; the  children  cry  ing,  and  the  jnothers  hushing 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


887 


them  ; the  donkeys  l)mying  fitfully  in  tlie  moonlight ; at  last,  I 
heard  the  clatter  of  hoots  below,  and  the  hailing  of  men.  It  was 
three  o’clock,  the  horses  were  actually  come  ; nay,  there  were 
camels  likewise  ; asses  and  mules,  pack-saddles  and  drivers,  all 
bustling  together  under  the  moonlight  in  the  cheerful  street  — 
and  the  first  night  in  S3  ria  was  over. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

FROM  JAFFA  TO  JERUSALEM. 

It  took  an  hour  or  more  to  get  our  little  caravan  into  march- 
ing order,  to  accommodate  all  the  packs  to  the  horses,  the 
horses  to  the  riders  ; to  see  the  ladies  comfortabl}'  placed  in 
their  litter,  with  a sleek  and  large  black  mule  fore  and  aft,  a 
groom  to  each  mule,  and  a tall  and  exceedingh'  good-natured 
and  mahogain'-colored  infidel  to  walk  b}'  the  side  of  the  carriage, 
to  balance  it  as  it  swa3’ed  to  and  fro,  and  to  offer  his  back  as 
a step  to  the  inmates  whenever  the}’  were  minded  to  ascend 
or  alight.  These  three  fellows,  fasting  through  the  Ramazan, 
and  over  as  rough  a road,  foi‘  the  greater  part,  as  ever  shook 
mortal  bones,  performed  their  fourteen  hours’  wmlk  of  near  fort}' 
miles,  with  the  most  admirable  courage,  alacrity,  and  good  hu- 
mor. They  once  or  twice  drank  water  on  the  march,  and  so 
far  infringed  the  rule  ; but  they  refused  all  bread  or  edible  re- 
freshment offered  to  them,  and  tugged  on  with  an  energy  that 
the  best  camel,  and  I am  sure  the  best  Christian,  might  envy. 
What  a lesson  of  good-humored  endurance  it  was  to  certain 
Pall  Mall  Sardanapaluses,  who  grumble  if  club  sofa-cushions  are 
not  soft  enough  ! 

If  I could  write  sonnets  at  leisure,  I would  like  to  chronicle 
in  fourteen  lines  my  sensations  on  finding  myself  on  a high 
Turkish  saddle,  with  a pair  of  fire-shovel  stirrups  and  worsted 
reins,  red  padded  saddle-cloth,  and  innumeiable  tags,  fringes, 
glass-beads,  ends  of  rope,  to  decorate  the  harness  of  the  horse, 
the  gallant  steed  on  which  I was  about  to  gallop  into  Syrian 
life.  What  a figure  we  cut  in  the  moonlight,  and  how  they 
would  have  stared  in  the  Strand  ! Ay,  or  in  Leicestershire, 
where  I warrant  such  a horse  and  rider  are  not  often  visible  ! 
The  shovel  stirrups  are  deucedly  short ; the  clumsy  leathers  cut 


388 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


the  shins  of  some  equestrians  abominably ; j^on  sit  orer  your 
horse  as  it  were  on  a tower,  from  which  the  descent  would  be 
very  easy,  but  for  the  big  peak  of  the  saddle.  A good  way  for 
the  inexperienced  is  to  put  a stick  or  umbrella  across  the  saddle 
peak  again,  so  that  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  go  over  your 
horse’s  neck.  I found  this  a vast  comfort  in  going  down  the 
Jiills,  and  recommend  it  conscientiously  to  other  dear  simple 
brethren  of  the  city. 

Peaceful  men,  we  did  not  ornament  our  girdles  with  pistols, 
3’ataghans,  &c.,  such  as  some  pilgrims  appeared  to  bristle  all 
over  with ; and  as  a lesson  to  such  rash  people,  a stor}^  may  be 
told  which  was  narrated  to  us  at  Jerusalem,  and  carries  a whole- 
some moral.  The  Honorable  Hoggin  Armer,  who  was  latety 
travelling  in  the  East,  wore  about  his  stomach  two  brace  of 
pistols,  of  such  exquisite  finish  and  make,  that  a Sheikh,  in  the 
Jericho  countiy,  robbed  him  merel}^  for  the  sake  of  the  pistols. 
I don’t  know  whether  he  has  told  the  stoiy  to  his  friends  at 
home. 

Another  stoiy  about  Sheikhs  may  here  be  told  apropos. 
That  celebrated  Irish  Peer,  Lord  Oldgent  (wdio  was  distin- 
guished in  the  Buckinghamshire  Dragoons),  having  paid  a sort 
of  black  mail  to  the  Sheikh  of  Jericho  countiy,  was  suddenly" 
set  upon  1)3^  another  Sheikh,  who  claimed  to  be  the  real  Jeri- 
chonian  governor ; and  these  twins  quarrelled  over  the  bod3'  of 
Lord  Oldgent,  as  the  widows  for  the  innocent  baby  before  Solo- 
mon. There  was  enough  for  both  — but  these  digressions  are 
interminable. 

The  part3^  got  under  wa3^  at  near  four  o’clock  : the  ladies  in 
the  litter,  the  Yvcnch.  femme-de-chamhre  manfull3^  caracoling  on 
a gra3^  horse  ; the  cavaliers,  like  3’our  humble  servant,  on  their 
high  saddles  ; the  domestics,  flunkies,  guides,  and  grooms,  on 
all  sorts  of  animals,  — some  fourteen  in  all.  Add  to  these,  two 
most  grave  and  stateh^  Arabs  in  white  beards,  white  turbans, 
pvhite  haicks  and  raiments;  sabres  curling  round  their  militar3" 
'thighs,  and  immense  long  guns  at  their  backs.  More  venerable 
warriors  I never  saw  ; they  went  by  the  side  of  the  litter  soberty 
prancing.  AVhen  we  emerged  from  the  steep  clattering  streets 
of  the  cit3^  into  the  grav  plains,  lighted  by  the  moon  and  star- 
light, these  militaries  rode  onward,  leading  the  wa3^  through 
the  huge  avenues  of  strange  diabolical-looking  pricklv  pears 
(plants  that  look  as  if  they  had  grown  in  Tartarus),  by  which 
the  first  mile  or  two  of  route  from  the  city  is  bounded  ; and  as 
the  dawn  arose  before  us,  exhibiting  first  a streak  of  gra3^,  then 
of  green,  then  of  red  in  the  sk3",  it  was  fine  to  see  these  martial 


FROM  CORNlilLL  TO  CAIRO. 


389 


figures  defined  against  the  rising  light.  The  sight  of  that  little 
cavalcade,  and  of  the  nature  around  it,  will  always  remain  with 
me,  I think,  as  one  of  the  freshest  and  most  delightful  sensa- 
tions I have  enjoyed  since  the  day  1 first  saw  Calais  pier.  It 
was  full  day  when  the}'  gave  their  horses  a drink  at  a large 
pretty  Oiiental  fountain,  and  then  presently  we  entered  the  open 
})lain  — the  famous  plain  of  Sharon  — so  fruitful  in  roses  once, 
now  hardl}'  cultivated,  but  always  beautiful  and  noble. 

Here  presently,  in  the  distance,  we  saw  another  cavalcade 
pricking  over  the  plain.  Our  two  white  warriors  spread  to  the 
'vight  and  left,  and  galloped  to  reconnoitre.  We,  too,  put  our 
steeds  to  the  canter,  and  handling  our  umbrellas  as  Richard  did 
his  lance  against  Saladin,  went  undaunted  to  challenge  this 
caravan.  The  fact  is,  we  could  distinguish  that  it  was  formed 
of  the  party  of  our  [)ious  friends  the  Poles,  and  we  hailed  them 
with  cheerful  shouting,  and  [)resentl}^  the  two  caravans  joined 
company,  and  scoured  the  plain  at  the  rate  of  near  four  miles 
per  hour.  The  horse-master,  a courier  of  this  company,  rode 
three  miles  for  our  one.  lie  was  a broken-nosed  Arab,  with 
pistols,  a sabre,  a fusee,  a }'ellow  Damascus  cloth  flapping  over 
his  head,  and  his  nose  ornamented  with  diach3'lon.  He  rode 
a hog-necked  gray  Arab,  bristling  over  with  harness,  and 
jumped,  and  whirled,  and  reared,  and  halted,  to  the  admiration 
of  all. 

Scarce  had  the  diachylonian  Arab  finislied  his  evolutions, 
when  lo  ! }’et  another  cloud  of  dust  was  seen,  and  another  party 
of  armed  and  glittering  horsemen  ap[)eared.  They,  too,  were 
led  b}'  an  Arab,  who  was  followed  by  two  janissaries,  with 
silver  maces  shining  in  the  sun.  ’Twas  the  party  of  the  new 
American  Consul-General  of  83’ria  and  Jerusalem,  hastening  to 
that  citv,  w'ith  the  inferior  consuls  of  Ramleh  and  Jaffa  to  escort 
him.  He  expects  to  see  the  Millennium  in  three  years,  and  has 
accepted  the  office  of  consul  at  Jerusalem,  so  as  to  be  on  the 
spot  in  readiness. 

When  the  diachylon  Arab  saw  the  American  Arab,  he 
straightway  galloped  his  steed  towards  him,  took  his  pipe, 
which  he  delivered  at  his  adversarv  in  guise  of  a jereed,  and 
galloped  round  and  round,  and  in  and  out,  and  there  and  back 
again,  as  in  a play  of  war.  The  American  replied  in  a similar 
pla3'ful  ferocity  — the  two  warriors  made  a little  tournament 
for  us  thereon  the  plains  before  Jaffa,  in  the  which  diachylon 
being  a little  worsted,  challenged  his  adversary  to  a race,  and 
fled  awa}^  on  his  gra}',  the  American  following  on  his  ba}\  Here 


390 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


poor  sticking-plaster  was  again  worsted,  the  Yankee  contemptu< 
OLid}'  riding  round  him,  and  then  declining  further  exercise. 

What  more  could  mortal  man  want?  A troop  of  knights 
and  paladins  could  have  done  no  more.  In  no  page  of  Walter 
Scott  have  I read  a scene  more  fair  and  sparkling.  The  sober 
warriors  of  our  escort  did  not  join  in  the  gambols  of  the  young 
men.  There  they  rode  soberl}’',  in  their  white  turbans,  bj^  their 
ladies’  litter,  their  long  guns  rising  up  behind  them. 

There  was  no  lack  of  company"  along  the  road : donkeys 
numberless,  camels  by  twos  and  threes  ; now  a mule-driver, 
trudging  along  the  road,  chanting  a most  queer  melod}^ ; now  a 
lad}’,  in  white  veil,  black  mask,  and  yellow  papooshes,  bestrid- 
ing her  ass,  and  followed  b}"  her 'husband,  — met  us  on  the  wa}^ ; 
and  most  people  gave  a salutation.  Presently  we  saw  Ramleh, 
in  a smoking  mist,  on  the  plain  before  us,  flanked  to  the  right 
by  a tall  lonely  tower,  that  might  have  held  the  bells  of  some 
moutier  of  Caen  or  Evreux.  As  we  entered,  about  three  hours 
and  a half  after  starting,  among  the  white  domes  and  stone 
houses  of  the  little  town,  we  passed  the  place  of  tombs.  Two 
women  were  sitting  on  one  of  them,  — the  one  bending  her 
head  towards  the  stone,  and  rocking  to  and  fro,  and  moaning 
out  a very  sweet,  pitiful  lamentation.  The  American  consul 
invited  us  to  breakfast  at  the  house  of  his  subaltern,  the  hos- 
pitable one-e3’ed  Armenian,  who  represents  the  United  States  at 
Jafla.  The  stars  and  stripes  were  flaunting  over  his  terraces, 
to  which  we  ascended,  leaving  our  horses  to  the  care  of  a mul- 
titude of  roaring,  ragged  Arabs  beneath,  who  took  charge  of 
and  fed  the  animals,  though  I can’t  say  in  the  least  why  ; but, 
in  the  same  way  as  getting  off  my  horse  on  entering  Jerusalem, 
I gave  the  rein' into  the  hand  of  the  first  person  near  me,  and 
have  never  heard  of  the  worthy  brute  since.  At  the  American 
consul’s  we  were  served  first  with  rice  soup  in  pishpash,  flavored 
with  cinnamon  and  spice  ; then  with  boiled  mutton,  then  with 
stewed  ditto  and  tomatoes  ; then  with  fowls  swimming  in  grease  ; 
then  with  brown  ragouts  belabored  with  onions ; then  with  a 
smoking  pilaff  of  rice  : several  of  which  dishes  I can  pronounce 
to  be  of  excellent  material  and  flavor.  When  the  gentiy  had 
concluded  this  repast,  it  was  handed  to  a side-table,  where  the 
commonalty  speedily  discussed  it.  We  left  them  licking  their 
fingers  as  we  hastened  away  upon  the  second  part  of  the 
ride. 

And  as  we  quitted  Ramleh,  the  sceneiy  lost  that  sweet  and 
peaceful  look  which  characterizes  the  pretty  plain  we  had  trav- 
ersed ; and  the  sun,  too,  rising  in  the  heaven,  dissipated  all 


FROM  CORNlliLL  TO  CAIRO. 


391 


those  fresh,  beautiful  tints  in  which  God’s  world  is  clothed  of 
earh’  morning,  and  which  city  peo[)le  have  so  seldom  the  chance 
of  beholding.  The  plain  ovc]-  which  wm  rode  looked  }’ellow  and 
gloomy’ ; the  cultivation  little  or  none  ; the  land  across  the  road- 
side fringed,  for  the  most  })art,  with  straggling  wild  carrot 
[)laiits  ; a patch  of  green  only  here  and  tlicre.  We  passed  sev- 
cral  herds  of  lean,  small,  well-conditioned  cattle  : many  flocks 
of' black  goats,  tended  now  and  then  by  a ragged  negro  shep- 
herd, his  long  gun  shing  over  his  back,  his  hand  over  his  eyes 
to  shade  them  as  he  stared  at  our  little  cavalcade.  Most  of  the 
half-naked  countryfolks  we  met,  had  this  dismal  appendage 
to  Eastern  rustic  life  ; and  the  weapon  could  hardly  be  one  of 
mere  defence,  for,  beyond  the  faded  skull-cup,  or  tattered  coat 
of  blue  or  dirt}^  white,  the  brawny,  brown-chested,  solemn-look- 
ing fellows  had  nothing  seeminglv  to  guard.  As  before,  there 
was  no  lack  of  travellers  on  the  road  : more  donkey's  trotted  bjg 
looking  sleek  and  strong;  camels  singl}^  and  by  pairs,  laden 
with  a little  huml)le  ragged  merchandise,  on  their  way  between 
the  two  towns.  About  noon  we  halted  eagerlj'  at  a short  dis- 
tance from  an  Arab  village  and  well,  where  all  were  glad  of  a 
drink  of  fresh  water.  A village  of  beavers,  or  a colony  of  ants, 
make  habitations  not  unlike  these  dismal  huts  jailed  together  on 
the  [)lain  here.  There  were  no  single  huts  along  the  whole  line 
of  road  ; poor  and  wretched  as  the}'  are,  the  Fellahs  huddle  all 
together  for  protection  from  the  other  thieves  theii-  neighbors. 
The  government  ( which  we  restored  to  them)  has  no  power  to 
protect  them,  and  is  only  strong  enough  to  rob  them.  The 
women,  with  their  long  blue  gowns  and  ragged  veils,  came  to 
and  fro  with  [)itchers  on  their  heads.  Rebecca  had  such  an  one 
when  she  brought  drink  to  the  lieutenant  of  Abi-aham.  The 
boys  came  staring  round,  bawling  after  us  with  their  fathers  for 
the  inevitable  backsheesh.  The  village  dogs  barked  round  the 
flocks,  as  the}~were  driven  to  water  or  pasture. 

We  saw  a gloomy,  not  very  loftv-looking  ridge  of  hills  in 
front  of  us  ; the  highest  of  which  the  guide  pointing  out  to  us, 
told  us  that  from  it  we  should  see  Jerusalem.  It  looked  very 
near,  and  we  all  set  up  a trot  of  enthusiasm  to  get  into  this  hill 
countiy. 

But  that  burst  of  enthusiasm  ( it  may  have  carried  us  nearly 
a quarter  of  a mile  in  three  minutes)  was  soon  destined  to  be 
checked  by  the  disagreeable  nature  of  the  coiintr}'  we  had  to 
traverse.  Before  w'e  got  to  the  real  mountain  district,  vre  were 
in  a manner  prepared  for  it,  by  the  mounting  and  descent  of 
several  lonely  outlying  hills,  up  and  down  which  our  rough 


392 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


stony  track  wound.  Then  we  entered  the  hill  district,  and  oui 
path  la}"  through  the  clattering  bed  of  an  ancient  stream,  whose 
brawling  waters  have  rolled  away  into  the  past,  along  with  the 
fierce  and  turbulent  race  who  once  inhabited  these  savage  hills. 
There  may  have  been  cultivation  here  two  thousand  }’ears  ago. 
The  mountains,  or  huge  stony  mounds  environing  this  rough 
})ath,  have  level  ridges  all  the  way  up  to  their  summits  ; on 
these  parallel  ledges  there  is  still  some  verdure  and  soil : when 
water  flowed  here,  and  the  country  was  thronged  with  that 
extraordinary  population,  which,  according  to  the  Sacred  His- 
tories, was  crowded  into  the  region,  these  mountain  steps  may 
have  been  gardens  and  vine3’ards,  such  as  we  see  now  thriving 
along  the  hills  of  the  Rhine.  Now  the  district  is  quite  deserted, 
and  you  ride  among  what  seem  to  be  so  man}"  petrified  water- 
falls. AVe  saw  no  animals  moving  among  the  stony  brakes; 
scarcely  even  a dozen  little  birds  in  the  whole  course  of  the 
ride.  The  sparrows  are  all  at  Jerusalem,  among  the  house^ 
tops,  w'here  their  ceaseless  chirping  and  twittering  forms  the 
most  cheerful  sound  of  the  place. 

The  company  of  Poles,  the  company  of  Oxford  men,  and  the 
little  American  army,  travelled  too  quick  for  our  caravan,  which 
was  made  to  follow  the  slow  progress  of  the  ladies’  litter,  and 
w'e  had  to  make  the  journey  through  the  mountains  in  a very 
small  number.  Not  one  of  our  party  had  a single  weapon  more 
dreadful  than  an  umbrella : and  a couple  of  Arabs,  wickedly 
inclined,  might  have  brought  us  all  to  the  halt,  and  rifled  ever} 
carpet-hag  and  pocket  ])elonging  to  us.  Nor  can  I say  that 
we  journeyed  without  certain  qualms  of  fear.  AYhen  swarthy 
fellows,  with  girdles  full  of  pistols  and  yataghans,  passed  ug 
without  u'nslinging  their  long  guns:  — when  scowling  camel- 
riders,  with  awful  long  bending  lances,  decorated  wdth  tufts 
of  rags,  or  savage  plumes  of  scarlet  feathers,  went  by  without 
molestation,  1 tliink  we  were  rather  glad  that  they  did  not  stop 
and  parley  : for,  after  all,  a IJritish  lion  with  an  umbrella  is  no 
mateh  for  an  Arab  with  his  infernal  long  gun.  AYhat,  too, 
would  have  become  of  our  women  ? So  we  tried  to  think  that 
it  was  entirely  out  of  anxiety  for  them  that  we  were  inclined  to 
push  on. 

There  is  a shady  resting-place  and  village  in  the  midst  of 
the  mountain  district,  where  the  travellers  are  accustomed  to 
halt  for  an  hour’s  repose  and  refreshment ; and  the  other  cara- 
vans were  just  quitting  this  spot,  having  enjoyed  its  cool  shades 
and  waters,  when  w'e  came  up.  Should  w"e  stop?  Regard  for 
the  ladies  (of  course  no  other  earthly  consideration)  made  us 


FROM  CORNHTLL  TO  CAIRO. 


393 


say,  “ No  I ’’  AYhat  adniiraljlc  self-deiual  and  chivalrous  de- 
votion ! So  our  poor  devils  of  mules  and  horses  got  no  rest 
and  no  water,  our  panting  litter-men  no  breatliing  time, 
and  w'e  staggered  desperately  after  the  procession  ahead  of 
us.  It  wound  up  the  mountain  in  front  of  us : the  Poles 
with  their  guns  and  attendants,  the  Ameriean  with  his  janis- 
saries ; lil'tv  or  sixty  all  riding  slowly  like  the  procession  in 
- Bluebeard.” 

But  alas,  the}’  headed  us  very  soon  ; when  we  got  up  the 
weaiy  hill  they  were  all  out  of  sight.  Perha[)s  thoughts  of  Fleet 
Street  did  cross  the  minds  of  some  of  us  then,  and  a vague 
desire  to  see  a few  policemen.  The  district  now  seemed  peo- 
pled, and  with  an  ugly  race.  Savage  personages  peered  at  us 
out  of  huts,  and  grim  holes  in  the  roeks.  The  mules  began  to 
loiter  most  abominabl}'  — water  the  muleteers  must  have  — 
and,  behold,  we  came  to  a [)leasant-looking  village  of  trees 
standing  on  a hill ; children  were  shaking  figs  from  the  trees  — 
women  were  going  about  — l)efore  us  was  tlie  mosque  of  a holy 
man  — the  village,  looking  like  a collection  of  little  forts,  rose 
up  on  the  hill  to  our  right,  with  a long  view  of  the  fields  and 
gardens  stretching  from  it,  and  camels  arriving  with  their  bur- 
dens. Here  we  must  stop  ; Paolo,  the  chief  servant,  knew  the 
Sheikh  of  the  village  — he  very  good  man  — give  him  water 
and  supper  — water  very  good  here  — in  fact  we  began  to  think 
of  the  propriety  ot‘  halting  here  for  the  night,  and  making  our 
entry  into  Jerusalem  on  the  next  day. 

A man  on  a handsome  horse  dressed  in  red  came  prancing 
up  to  us,  looking  hard  at  the  ladies  in  the  litter,  and  i>assed 
awa}’.  Then  two  others  sauntered  up,  one  handsome,  and 
dressed  in  red  too,  and  he  stared  into  the  litter  without  cere- 
mony, began  to  play  with  a little  dog  that  la\’  there,  asked  if 
we  were  Inglees,  and  was  answered  by  me  in  the  affirmative. 
Paolo  had  brought  the  water,  the  most  delicious  draught  in  the 
world.  The  gentlefolks  had  had  some,  the  poor  muleteers  w’ere 
longing  for  it.  The  French  maid,  the  courageous  Victoire 
(never  since  the  days  of  Joan  of  Arc  has  there  surely  been  a 
more  gallant  and  virtuous  female  of  France)  refused  the  drink ; 
when  suddenly  a servant  of  the  party  scampers  up  to  his  master 
and  says  ; “ Abou  Gosh  sa}’s  the  ladies  must  get  out  and  show 
themselves  to  the  women  of  the  village  ! ” 

It  was  Abou  Gosh  himself,  the  redoubted  robber  Sheikh 
about  whom  w’e  had  been  laughing  and  ciying  “Wolf! ’’all 
da}’.  Never  was  seen  such  a skurry ! “March!”  was  the 
instant  order  given.  When  Victoire  heard  who  it  was  and  the 


394 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


message,  }"0u  should  have  seen  how  she  changed  countenance  5 
trembling  for  her  virtue  in  the  ferocious  clutches  of  a Gosh. 
“ Un  verre  d’eau  pour  I’amour  de  Dieu  I ” gasped  she,  and  was 
ready  to  faint  on  her  saddle.  “ Ne  buvez  plus,  Victoire ! ” 
screamed  a little  fellow  of  our  party.  “Push  on,  push  on!” 
cried  one  and  all.  “ What’s  the  matter  1 ” exclaimed  the  ladies 
in  the  litter,  as  the}^  saw  themselves  suddenly  jogging  on  again. 
But  we  took  care  not  to  tell  them  what  had  been  the  designs 
of  the  redoubtable  Abou  Gosh.  Away  then  we  went  — Vic- 
toire was  saved  — and  her  mistresses  rescued  from  dangeis 
they  knew  not  of,  until  they  were  a long  way  out  of  the  vil- 
lage. 

Did  he  intend  insult  or  good-will?  Did  Victoire  escape  the 
odious  chance  of  becoming  Madame  Abou  Gosh  ? Or  did  the 
mountain  chief  simply  propose  to  be  hospitable  after  his  fash- 
ion? 1 think  the  latter  was  his  desire  ; if  the  former  had  been 
his  wish,  a half-dozen  of  his  long  guns  could  have  been  up  with 
us  in  a minute,  and  had  all  our  party  at  their  mercy.  But  now, 
for  the  sake  of  the  mere  excitement,  the  incident  was,  I am 
Sony  to  say,  rather  a. pleasant  one  than  otherwise  : especially 
for  a traveller  who  is  in  the  happy  condition  of  being  able  to 
sing  before  robbers,  as  is  the  case  with  the  writer  of  the 
[)resent. 

A little  wa\^  out  of  the  land  of  Goshen  we  came  upon  a long 
stretch  of  gardens  and  vineyards,  slanting  towards  the  setting 
sun,  which  illuminated  numberless  golden  clusters  of  the  most 
delicious  grapes,  of  which  we  stopped  and  partook.  Such 
gra[)es  were  never  before  tasted  ; water  so  Iresli  as  that  which 
a countryman  fetched  for  us  from  a well  never  sluiced  parched 
throats  before.  It  was  the  ride,  the  sun,  and  above  all  Abou 
Gosh,  who  made  that  refreshment  so  sweet,  and  hei’eby  I offer 
him  my  best  thanks.  Presently,  in  the  midst  of  a most  diaboli- 
cal ravine,  down  which  our  horses  went  sliding,  we  heard  the 
evening  gun  ; it  was  tired  from  Jerusalem.  The  twilight  is  brief 
in  this  countiy,  and  in  a few  minutes  the  landscape  was  gray 
round  about  us,  and  the  sky  lighted  up  b}’  a hundred  thousand 
stars,  which  made  the  night  beautibil. 

Under  this  superb  cano[)y  we  rode  for  a couple  of  hours  to 
our  journey’s  end.  The  mountains  round  about  us  dark,  lonely, 
and  sad  ; the  landscape  as  we  sa^v  it  at  night  (it  is  not  more 
cheerful  in  the  daytime),  the  most  solemn  and  forlorn  I have 
ever  seen.  The  feelings  of  almost  terror  with  which,  riding 
through  the  night,  we  approached  this  awfij  place,  thy  centre 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


395 


of  the  world’s  past  and  future  history,  have  no  need  to  be  noted 
down  here.  The  recollection  of  those  sensations  must  remain 
with  a man  as  long  as  his  memor}’  lasts  ; and  he  should  think 
of  them  as  often,  perhaps,  as  he  should  talk  of  them  little. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


JERUSALEM. 


The  ladies  of  our  party  found  excellent  quarters  in  readiness 
for  them  at  the  Cireek  convent  in  the  city  ; whore  aiiy  rooms, 
and  plentiful  meals,  and  wines  and  sweetmeats  delicate  and 
abundant,  were  [)i’ovided  to  cheer  them  after  the  fatigues  of 
their  journe^x  I don’t  know  whether  the  woitln'  fathers  of  the 
convent  share  in  the  good  things  which  the}'  lavish  on  their 
guests  ; but  they  look  as  if  the}^  do.  Those  whom  we  saw  bore 
every  sign  of  eas}'  conscience  and  good  living  ; there  were  a 
pair  of  strong,  rosy,  greasy,  lazy  la3'-brothers,  dawdling  in  the 
sun  on  the  convent  terrace,  or  peering  over  the  parapet  into 
the  street  below,  whose  looks  gave  one  a notion  of  anything 
but  asceticism. 

In  the  principal  room  of  the  strangers’  house  (the  lay  trav- 
eller is  not  admitted  to  dwell  in  the  sacred  interior  of  the  con- 
vent), and  over  the  building,  the  Russian  double-headed  eagle 
is  displayed.  The  place  is  under  the  patronage  of  the  Emperor 
Nicholas : an  Imperial  Prince  has  stayed  in  these  rooms  : the 
Russian  consul  performs  a great  part  in  the  city  ; and  a con- 
siderable annual  stipend  is  given  by  the  Emperor  towards  the 
maintenance  of  the  great  establishment  in  Jerusalem.  The 
Great  Chapel  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  is  b}'  far 
the  richest,  in  point  of  furniture,  of  all  the  places  of  worship 
under  that  roof.  We  were  in  Russia,  when  we  came  to  visit 
our  friends  here  ; under  the  protection  of  the  Father  of  the 
Church  and  the  Imperial  Eagle ! This  butcher  and  tyrant, 
who  sits  on  his  throne  only  through  the  crime  of  those  w'ho 
held  it  before  him  — every  step  in  whose  pedigree  is  stained 
by  some  horrible  mark  of  murder,  parricide,  adultery  — this 
padded  and  whiskered  pontiff — who  rules  in  his  jack-boots 
over  a system  of  spies  and  soldiers,  of  deceit,  ignorance,  dis- 
soluteness, and  brute  force,  such  as  surely  the  history  of  the 


396 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


world  never  told  of  before  — has  a tender  interest  in  the  welfare 
of  his  spiritual  children : in  the  Eastern  Church  ranks  after 
divinity,  and  is  worshipped  by  millions  of  men.  A pious  ex- 
emplar of  Christianity  truly  ! and  of  the  condition  to  w'hich  its 
union  with  politics  has  brought  it ! Think  of  the  rank  to  which 
he  pretends,  and  gravely  believes  that  he  possesses,  no  doubt ! 
— think  of  those  who  assumed  the  same  ultra-sacred  character 
before  him  ! — and  then  of  the  Bible  and  the  Founder  of  the 
lleligion,  of  which  the  Emperor  assumes  to  be  the  chief  priest 
and  defender ! 

We  had  some  Poles  of  our  party;  but  these  poor  fellows 
went  to  the  Latin  convent,  declining  to  worship  after  the  Em- 
peror’s fashion.  The  next  night  after  our  arrival,  two  of  them 
passed  in  the  Sepulchre.  There  we  saw  them,  more  than  once 
on  subsequent  visits,  kneeling  in  the  Latin  Church  before  the 
pictures,  or  marching  solemnl}*  with  candles  in  processions,  or 
lying  flat  on  the  stones,  or  passionately  kissing  the  spots  which 
their  traditions  have  consecrated  as  the  authentic  places  of  the 
Saviour’s  suflerings.  More  honest  or  more  civilized,  or  from 
opposition,  the  Latin  fathers  have  long  given  up  and  disowned 
the  disgusting  mummery  of  the  Eastern  Fire  — which  lie  the 
Greeks  continue  annually  to  tell. 

Their  travellers’  house  and  convent,  though  large  and  com- 
modious, arc  of  a much  poorer  and  shabbier  condition  than 
those  of  the  Greeks.  Both  make  believe  not  to  take  money; 
but  the  traveller  is  expected  to  pay  in  each.  The  Latin  fathers 
enlarge  their  means  by  a little  harmless  trade  in  beads  -and 
crosses,  and  mother-of-pearl  shells,  on  which  figures  of  saints 
are  engraved  ; and  which  the}-  purchase  from  the  manufac- 
turers, and  vend  at  a small  profit.  The  English,  until  of  late, 
used  to  be  quartered  in  these  sham  inns  ; but  last  year  two  or 
three  Maltese  took  houses  for  the  reception  of  tourists,  who 
can  now  be  accommodated  with  cleanly  and  comfortable  board, 

* at  a rate  not  too  heavy  for  most  pockets. 

' To  one  of  these  we  went  very  gladly  ; giving  our  horses  the 
bridle  at  the  door,  w’hich  went  ofi*  of  their  own  will  to  their 
stables,  through  the  dark  inextricable  labyrinths  of  streets, 
archways,  and  alleys,  which  we  had  threaded  after  leaving  the 
main  street  from  the  Jaffa  Gate.  There,  there  was  still  some 
life.  Numbers  of  persons  were  collected  at  their  doors,  or 
smoking  before  the  dingy  coffee-houses,  where  singing  and 
story-telling  w^ere  going  on  ; but  out  of  this  great  street  every- 
thing was  silent,  and  no  sign  of  a light  from  the  windows  of 
the  low  houses  which  we  passed. 


FROM  CORNUILL  TO  CAIRO. 


897 


We  ascended  from  a lower  floor  up  to  a terrace,  on  which 
were  several  little  domed  chambers,  or  pavilions.  From  tliis 
terrace,  whence  we  looked  in  the  morning,  a great  part  of  the 
city  spread  before  us  : — white  domes  upon  domes,  and  terraces 
of  the  same  character  as  our  own.  Here  and  there,  from 
among  these  whitewashed  mounds  round  about,  a minaret  rose, 
or  a rare  date-tree  ; but  the  chief  i)art  of  the  vegetation  near 
was  tliat  odious  tree  the  prickly  })ear,  — one  huge  green  wart 
growing  out  of  another,  armed  with  sjakes,  as  inhospitable  as 
the  aloe,  without  shelter  or  beauty.  To  the  right  the  Mosque 
of  Omar  rose  ; the  rising  sun  behind  it.  A'onder  steep  tor- 
tuous lane  before  us.  Hanked  by  ruined  walls  on  either  side, 
has  borne,  time  out  of  mind,  the  title  of  Via  Dolorosa  ; and 
tradition  has  fixed  the  spots  where  the  Saviour  rested,  bearing 
his  cross  to  Calvary.  Rut  of  the  mountain,  rising  immediately 
in  front  of  us,  a few  gray  olive-trees  speckling  the  yellow  side 
here  and  there,  there  can  be  no  question.  That  is  the  Mount 
of  Olives.  Bethany  Ires  beyond  it.  Tlie  most  sacred  e^^es 
tliat  ever  looked  on  this  world  have  gazed  on  those  ridges  : it 
was  there  lie  used  to  walk  and  teach.  With  shame  and  humil- 
ity one  looks  towards  the  spot  where  that  inexpressible  Love 
and  Benevolence  lived  and  breathed  ; where  the  great  3’earning 
heart  of  the  Saviour  interceded  for  ail  our  race  ; and  whence 
the  bigots  and  traitors  of  his  da}’  led  him  awa}’  to  kill  him  ! 

That  compaii}’  of  Jews  whom  we  had  brought  with  us  from 
Constantinople,  and  who  had  cursed  eveiy  delay  on  the  route, 
not  from  impatience  to  view  the  Holy  Cit}’,  but  from  rage  at 
being  obliged  to  purchase  dear  iirovisions  for  their  mainte- 
nance on  ship-board,  made  what  bargains  they  best  could  at 
Jaffa,  and  journeyed  to  the  Valiev  of  Jehoshaphat  at  the 
cheapest  rate.  We  saw  the  tall  form  of  the  old  Polish  Patri- 
arch, venerable  in  filth,  stalking  among  the  stinking  ruins  of 
the  Jewish  quarter.  The  si}’  old  Rabbi,  in  the  greasy  folding 
hat,  who  would  not  pay  to  shelter  his  children  from  the  storm 
off  Beyrout,  greeted  us  in  the  bazaars  ; the  younger  Rabbis 
were  furbished  up  with  some  smartness.  We  met  them  on  Sun- 
day at  the  kind  of  promenade  by  the  walls  of  the  Bethlehem 
(fate  ; they  were  in  company  of  some  red-bearded  co-religion- 
ists, smartly  attired  in  Eastern  raiment;  but  their  voice  was 
the  voice  of  the  Jews  of  Berlin,  and  of  course  as  we  passed 
they  were  talking  about  so  many  hundert  thaler.  You  may 
track  one  of  the  people,  and  l?e  sure  to  hear  mention  of  that 
silver  calf  that  they  worship. 


39S 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


The  English  mission  has  been  ver3^  imsiiceessful  with  these 
religionists.  I don’t  believe  the  Episcopal  apparatus  — the 
cha[)lains,  and  the  colleges,  and  the  beadles  — have  succeeded 
in  converting  a dozen  of  them  ; and  a sort  of  mart^Tdorn  is  in 
store  for  the  luckless  Hebrew  at  Jerusalem  who  shall  secede 
from  his  faith.  Their  old  communit}'  spurn  them  with  horror ; 
and  I heard  of  the  case  of  one  unfortunate  man,  whose  wife, 
in  spite  of  her  husband’s  change  of  creed,  being  resolved,  like 
a true  woman,  to  cleave  to  him,  was  spirited  away  from  him  in 
his  absence  ; was  kept  in  privac}"  in  the  city,  in  spite  of  all  ex- 
ertions of  the  mission,  of  the  consul  and  the  bishop,  and  the 
chaplains  and  the  beadles  ; was  passed  awa}^  from  Jerusalem  to 
Be>  rout,  and  thence  to  Constantinople  ; and  from  Constanti- 
nople was  whisked  off  into  the  Russian  territories,  where  she 
still  pines  after  her  husband.  Maj’  that  unhappy  convert  find  ? 
consolation  away  from  her.  I could  not  help  thinking,  as  my  i 
informant,  an  excellent  and  accomplished  gentleman  of  the 
mission,  told  me  the  story,  that  the  Jews  had  done  only  what  | 
the  Christians  do  under  the  same  circumstances.  The  woman  I 
was  the  daughter  of  a most  learned  Rabbi,  as  I gathered.  | 

Suppose  a daughter  of  the  Rabbi  of  Exeter,  or  Canterbuiy,  } 

were  to  many  a man  who  turned  Jew,  would  not  her  Right  j 

Reverend  Father  be  justified  in  taking  her  out  of  the  power  of  | 

a [)erson  likely  to  hurl  her  soul  to  perdition?  These  poor  con-  | 

verts  should  surel^y  be  sent  awa}'  to  England  out  of  the  wa}" 
of  persecution.  AVe  could  not  but  feel  a pity  for  them,  as  | 

they  sat  there  on  their  benches  in  the  church  conspicuous ; i 

ami  thought  of  the  scorn  and  contumely  which  attended  them 
without,  as  they  passed,  in  their  European  dresses  and  < 
shaven  beards,  among  their  grisl}",  scowling,  long-robed  coun-  ^ 
try  men.  . 

As  elsewhere  in  the  towns  I have  seen,  the  Ghetto  of  Jeru- 
Salem  is  i)re-eminent  in  filth.  The  people  are  gathered  round 
about  the  dung-gate  of  the  citv.  Of  a Frida,y  \’ou  ma_v  hear  V 

their  wailings  and  lamentations  for  the  lost  glories  of  their  city.  •'j 

I think  the  Valiev  of  Jehoshaphat  is  the  most  ghastly  sight  I 
have  seen  in  the  world.  From  all  quarters  they  come  hither  j| 

to  buiy  their  dead.  When  his  time  is  come  vonder  hoary  old  « 

miser,  with  whom  we  made  our  A'ovage,  will  lay  his  carcass  to  v 

rest  here.  To  do  that,  and  to  claw  together  mone}',  has  been  • 

the  purpose  of  that  strange,  long  life.  | 

AVe  brought  with  us  one  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  mission,  a 1 
Hebrew  convert,  the  Rev.  Mr.  E ; and  lest  I should  be  a 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


399 


supposed  to  speak  with  disrespect  above  of  an\'  of  the  converts 
of  the  Hebrew  taith,  let  me  mention  this  gentleman  as  the  only 
one  whom  1 had  the  fortune  to  meet  on  terms  of  intimac}’.  I 
never  saw  a man  whose  outward  couduct  was  more  touching, 
whose  sincerity  was  more  evident,  and  whose  religious  feeling 
seemed  more  deep,  real,  and  reasonable. 

Only  a few  feet  olf,  the  walls  of  the  Anglican  Church  of  Je- 
rusalem rise  ui)  from  their  foundations,  on  a i)ictures(|ue  open 
spot,  in  front  of  the  Bethlehem  Cate.  The  Phiglish  bisho[)  has 
his  church  hard  by  : and  near  it  is  the  house  where  the  Chris- 
tians of  our  denomination  assemble  and  worship. 

There  seem  to"  be  polyglot  services  here.  I saw  books  of 
prayer,  or  Scripture,  in  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  German  : in  which 
latter  language  Dr.  xVlexander  preaches  every  Sunday.  A gen- 
tleman who  sat  near  me  at  church  used  all  these  books  indif- 
ferently : reading  the  lirst  lesson  from  the  Hebrew  book,  and 
the  second  from  the  Greek.  Here  we  all  assembled  on  the 
Sunday  after  our  arrival : it  was  affecting  to  hear  the  music  and 
language  of  our  country  sounding  in  this  distant  place  ; to  have 
the  decent  and  manly  ceremonial  of  our  service  ; the  prayers 
delivered  in  that  noble  language.  Even  that  stout  anti-prelatist, 
the  American  consul,  who  has  left  his  house  and  fortune  in 
America  in  order  to  'witness  the  coming  of  the  Millennium,  who 
believes  it  to  l)e  so  near  that  he  has  brought  a dove  with  him  from 
his  native  land  (which  bii’d  he  solemnly  informed  us  was  to  sur- 
vive the  expected  Advent),  was  affected  by  the  good  old  words 
and  service.  He  swayed  about  and  moaned  iii  his  place  at  various 
passages  ; during  the  sermon  he  gave  especial  marks  of  syni- 
pathv  and  ap[)robation.  1 never  heard  the  service  more  excel- 
lently and  impressively  read  than  by  the  Bishop’s  chaplain, 
Mr.  Veitch.  But  it  was  the  music  that  was  most  touching  I 
thought,  — the  sweet  old  songs  of  home. 

There  was  a considerable  company  assembled : near  a hun- 
dred peoj^le  I should  think.  Our  party  made  a large  addition 
to  the  usual  congregation.  The  Bishop’s  family  is  proverbially 
numerous  : the  consul,  and  the  gentlemen  of  the  mission,  have 
wives,  and  children,  and  P^nglish  establishments.  These,  and 
the  strangers,  occupied  places  down  the  room,  to  the  right  and 
left  of  the  desk  and  communion-table.  The  converts,  and  the 
members  of  the  college,  in  rather  a scanty  number,  faced  the 
officiating  clergyman  ; before  whom  the  silver  maces  of  the  jan- 
issaries were  set  up,  as  they  set  up  the  beadles’  maces  in 
England. 

I made  many  walks  round  the  city  to  Olivet  and  Bethany, 


400 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


to  the  tombs  of  the  kings,  and  the  fountains  sacred  in  story. 
These  are  green  and  fresh,  but  all  the  rest  of  the  landscape 
seemed  to  me  to  be  frightful.  Parched  mountains,  with  a gray 
bleak  olive-tree  trembling  here  and  there  ; savage  ravines  and  val- 
leys, paved  with  tombstones  — a landscape  unspeakabl}’  ghastly 
and  desolate,  meet  the  eye  wherever  you  wander  round  about  the 
city.  The  place  seems  quite  adapted  to  the  events  which  are 
recorded  in  the  Hebrew  histories.  It  and  they,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  can  never  be  regarded  without  terror.  Fear  and  blood, 
crime  and  punishment,  follow  from  page  to  page  in  frightful 
succession.  There  is  not  a spot  at  which  you  look,  but  some 
violent  deed  has  been  done  there : some  massacre  has  been 
committed,  some  victim  has  been  murdered,  some  idol  has  been 
worshipped  with  blood}’  and  dreadful  rites.  Not  far  from  hence 
is  the  place  where  the  Jewish  conqueror  fought  for  the  posses- 
sion of  Jerusalem.  “ The  sun  stood  still,  and  hasted  not  to  go 
down  about  a whole  day  ; ” so  that  the  Jews  might  have  day- 
light to  destroy  the  Amorites,  whose  iniquities  were  full,  and 
whose  land  they  w'ere  about  to  occupy.  The  fugitive  heathen 
king,  and  his  allies,  were  discovered  in  their  hiding-place, 
and  hanged:  “and  the  children  of  Judah  smote  Jerusalem 
with  the  edge  of  the  sword,  and  set  the  city  on  fire  ; and 
they  left  none  remaining,  but  utterly  destroyed  all  that 
breathed.” 

I went  out  at  the  Zion  Gate,  and  looked  at  the  so-called 
tomb  of  David.  1 had  been  reading  all  the  morning  in  the 
Psalms,  and  his  history  in  Samuel  and  Kings.  Bring  thou 
doivri  Shifuei’s  hoar  head  to  the  grave  with  blood f are  the  last 
words  of  the  dying  monarch  as  recorded  by  the  history.  What 
they  call  the  tomb  is  now  a crumbling  old  mosque  ; from  which 
Jew  and  Christian  are  excluded  alike.  As  I saw  it,  blazing  in 
the  sunshine,  with  the  purple  sky  behind  it,  the  glare  only  served 
to  mark  the  surrounding  desolation  more  clearly.  The  lonely 
walls  and  towers  of  the  city  rose  hard  by.  Dreary  mountains, 
and  declivities  of  naked  stones,  were  round  about : they  are 
burrowed  with  holes  in  which  Christian  hermits  lived  and  died. 
You  see  one  green  place  far  down  in  the  valley : it  is  called 
En  Rogel.  Adonijah  feasted  there,  who  was  killed  by  his 
brother  Solomon,  for  asking  for  Abishag  for  wife.  The  Valley 
of  Hinnom  skirts  the  hill : the  dismal  ravine  was  a fruitful  gar- 
den once.  Ahaz,  and  the  idolatrous  kings,  sacrificed  to  idols 
under  the  green  trees  there,  and  “ caused  their  children  to  pass 
through  the  fire.”  On  the  mountain  opposite,  Solomon,  with 
the  thousand  women  of  his  harem,  worshipped  the  gods  of  all 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


401 


their  nations,  “ Aslitoretli,”  and  “Milcoin,  and  Molecb,  the 
abomination  of  the  Ammonites.”  An  enormous  charnel-house 
stands  on  the  hill  where  the  bodies  of  dead  pilgrims  used  to  be 
thrown  ; and  common  belief  has  fixed  upon  this  spot  as  the 
Aceldama,  which  Judas  purchased  with  the  price  of  his  treason. 
Thus  3’ou  go  on  from  one  gloom}’  place  to  another,  each  seared 
with  its  bloody  tradition.  Yonder  is  the  Temple,  and  you  think 
of  Titus’s  soldiery  storming  its  flaniing  porclies,  and  entering 
the  city,  in  the  savage  defence  of  which  two  million  human 
souls  [)erished.  It  was  on  JMount  Zion  that  Godfrey  and  Tan- 
cred  had  their  camp  : when  the  Crusaders  entered  the  mosque, 
they  rode  knee-deep  in  the  blood  of  its  defenders,  and  of  the 
women  and  children  who  had  fled  thither  for  refuge  : it  was  the 
victoi-}’  of  Joshua  over  again.  Then,  after  three  days  of  butch- 
ery, tliey  purified  the  desecrated  mosque  and  went  to  prayer. 
In  the  centre  of  this  history  of  crime  rises  up  the  Great  Mur- 
der of  all 

1 need  say  no  more  al)out  this  gloomy  landscape.  After  a 
man  has  seen  it  once,  he  never  forgets  it  — the  recollection  of 
it  seems  to  me  to  follow  him  like  a I’emorse,  as  it  were  to  im- 
l)licatc  him  in  the  awful  deed  which  was  done  there.  Oh  ! with 
what  unspeakable  shame  and  terror  sliould  one  think  of  that 
crime,  and  prostrate  himself  before  the  image  of  that  Divine 
Blessed  Sufferer. 

Of  course  the  first  visit  of  the  traveller  is  to  the  famous 
Church  of  the  Sepulchre. 

In  the  archway,  leading  from  the  street  to  the  court  and 
church,  there  is  a little  bazaar  of  Bethlehemites,  who  must  in- 
terfere considerably  with  the  commerce  of  the  Latin  fathers. 
These  men  bawl  to  you  from  their  stalls,  and  hold  up  for  your 
purchase  their  devotional  baubles,  — bushels  of  rosaries  and 
scented  beads,  and  carved  mother-of-pearl  shells,  and  rude 
stone  salt-cellars  and  figures.  Now  that  inns  are  established, 
— envoys  of  these  pedlars  attend  them  on  the  arrival  of  stran- 
gers, squat  all  day  on  the  terraces  before  your  door,  and  pa- 
tiently entreat  you  to  buy  of  their  goods.  Some  worthies  there 
are  who  drive  a good  trade  by  tattooing  pilgrims  v*dth  the  five 
crosses,  the  arms  of  Jerusalem ; under  which  the  name  of  the 
city  is  punctured  in  Hebrew,  with  the  auspicious  year  of  the 
Hadji’s  visit.  Several  of  our  fellow-trav.ellers  submitted  to  this 
queer  operation,  and  will  carry  to  their  grave  this  relic  of  their 
journey.  Some  of  them  had  engaged  a servant,  a man  at  Bey- 
rout,  who  had  served  as  a lad  on  board  an  English  ship  in  the 

26 


402 


ExiSTERN  SKETCHES. 


Mediterranean.  Above  liis  tattooage  of  the  five  crosses,  the 
fellow  had  a picture  of  two  hearts  united,  and  the  pathetic 
motto,  “ Bets}^  m3"  dear.”  He  had  parted  with  Bets}"  my  dear 
five  3’ears  before  at  Malta.  He  had  known  a little  English 
tliere,  but  had  forgotten  it.  Bets}^  m}^  dear  was  forgotten  too. 
O11I3'  her  name  remained  engraved  with  a vain  simulacrum  of 
constanc}"  on  the  faithless  rogue’s  skin  : on  which  was  now 
printed  another  token  of  equall3’  effectual  devotion.  The  beads 
and  the  tattooing,  however,  seem  essential  ceremonies  attend- 
ant on  the  Christian  pilgrim’s  visit;  for  man}"  hundreds  of 
years,  doubtless,  the  palmers  have  carried  off  with  them  these 
simple  reminiscences  of  the  sacred  cit}’.  That  symbol  has  been 
engraven  upon  the  arms  of  how  many  Princes,  Knights,  and 
Crusaders  ! Don’t  }"Ou  see  a moral  as  applicable  to  them  as  to 
the  swindling  Beyrout  horsebo}"?  I have  brought  }"ou  back  that 
cheap  and  wholesome  apologue,  iu  lieu  of  an}'  of  the  Bethle- 
hemite  shells  and  beads. 

After  [)assing  through  the  porch  of  the  pedlars,  you  come 
to  the  court-yard  in  front  of  the  noble  old  towers  of  the  Church 
of  the  Sepulchre,  with  pointed  arches  and  Gothic  traceries, 
rude,  but  rich  and  picturesque  in  design.  Here  crowds  are 
waiting  in  the  sun,  until  it  shall  please  the  Turkish  guardians 
of  the  church-door  to  open.  A swarm  of  beggars  sit  here  per- 
manently : old  tattered  hags  with  long  veils,  ragged  children, 
blind  old  bearded  beggars,  who  raise  up  a chorus  of  prayers 
for  money,  holding  out  their  wooden  bowls,  or  clattering  with 
their  sticks  on  the  stones,  or  pulling  your  coat-skirts  and  moan- 
ing and  whining ; yonder  sit  a group  of  coal-black  Coptish  pil- 
grims, with  robes  and  turbans  of  dark  blue,  fumbling  their 
perpetual  beads.  A party  of  Arab  Christians  have  come  up 
from  their  tents  or  villages : the  men  half-naked,  looking  as  if 
they  were  beggars,  or  banditti,  upon  occasion  ; the  women  have 
filing  their  head-cloths  back,  and  are  looking  at  the  strangers 
under  their  tattooed  eyebrows.  As  for  the  strangers,  there  is 
no  need  to  describe  them;  that  figure  of  the  Englishman,  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  has  been  seen  all  the  world  over: 
staring  down  the  crater  of  Vesuvius,  or  into  a Hottentot  kraal 
— or  at  a pyramid,  or  a Parisian  coffee-house,  or  an  blsquimaux; 
hut  — with  the  same  insolent  calmness  of  demeanor.  When 
the  gates  of  the  church  are  open,  lie  elbows  in  among  the  first, 
and  flings  a few  scornful  piastres  to  the  Turkish  door-keeper; 
and  gazes  round  easily  at  the  place,  in  which  people  of  every 
other  nation  in  the  world  are  in  tears,  or  in  rapture,  or  wonder. 
He  has  never  seen  the  place  until  now,  and  looks  as  indifferent 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO.  403 

as  the  Turkish  guardian  wlio  sits  in  the  doorwa}^,  and  swears 
at  the  people  as  they  [)our  in. 

Indeed,,!  believe  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  comprehend  the 
source  and  nature  of  the  Roman  Catholic  devotion.  I once 
went  into  a church  at  Rome  at  the  request  of  a Catholic  friend, 
wlio  described  the  interior  to  be  so  beautiful  and  glorious,  that 
he  thought  (he  said)  it  must  be  like  heaven  itsell*.  1 found 
walls  hung  wdth  cheap  stripes  of  pink  and  white  calico,  altars 
covered  with  artihcial  llowers,  a number  of  wax-candles,  and 
plenty  of  gilt-paper  ornaments.  The  place  seemed  to  me 
like  a shabby  tlieatre  ; and  here  was  my  friend  on  his  knees  at 
m}'  side,  plunged  in  a ra[)ture  of  wonder  and  devotion. 

I could  get  no  better  impression  out  of  this  the  most  famous 
church  in  the  woild.  The  deceits  are  too  open  and  llagrant ; 
the  inconsistencies  and  contrivances  too  monstrous.  It  is  hard 
even  to  sym[)athize  witli  [)ersons  who  receive  them  as  genuine  ; 
and  though  (as  1 know  and  saw  in  the  case  of  my  friend  at 
Rome)  the  believer’s  life  may  be  passed  in  the  purest  exercise 
of  faith  and  charity,  it  is  dillicult  even  to  give  him  credit  for 
honest}",  so  barefaced  seem  the  impostures  which  he  professes 
to  believe  and  reverence.  It  costs  one  no  small  effort  even  to 
admit  the  possibility  of  a Catholic’s  credulity  ; to  share  in  his 
rapture  and  devotion  is  still  further  out  of  your  j^ower ; and  I 
could  get  from  this  church  no  other  emotions  but  those  of  shame 
and  pain. 

The  legends  with  which  the  Greeks  and  Latins  have  gar- 
nished the  spot  have  no  more  sacredness  for  you  than  the 
hideous,  unreal,  barbaric  pictures  and  ornaments  which  they 
have  lavished  on  it.  Look  at  the  fervor  with  which  pilgrims 
kiss  and  weep  over  a tawdiy  Gothic  painting,  scarcely  better 
fashioned  than  an  idol  in  a South  Sea  Morai.  The  histories 
which  they  are  called  upon  to  reverence  are  of  the  same  period 
and  order, — savage  Gothic  caricatures.  In  either  a saint 
appears  in  the  costume  of  the  middle  ages,  and  is  made  to 
accommodate  himself  to  the  fashion  of  the  tenth  century. 

The  different  churches  battle  for  the  possession  of  the  varL 
ous  relics.  The  Greeks  show"  you  the  Tomb  of  Melchisedec, 
w"hile  the  Armenians  possess  the  Chapel  of  the  Penitent  Thief ; 
the  poor  Copts  ( with  their  little  cabin  of  a chapel)  can  yet 
boast  of  possessing  the  thicket  in  which  Abraham  caught  the 
Ram,  which  was  to  serve  as  the  vicar  of  Isaac ; the  Latins 
point  out  the  Pillar  to  which  the  Lord  was  bound.  The  place 
of  the  Invention  of  the  Sacred  Cross,  the  Fissure  in  the  Rock 
of  Golgotha,  the  Tomb  of  Adam  himself — are  all  here  within 


404 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


a few  yards’  space.  You  mount  a few  steps,  and  are  told  it  is 
Calvaiy  upon  which  3’ou  stand.  All  this  in  the  midst  of  flaring 
candles,  reeking  incense,  savage  pictures  of  Scripture  story,  or 
portraits  of  kings  who  have  been  benefactors  to  the  various 
chapels  ; a din  and  clatter  of  strange  people,  — these  weeping, 
bowing,  kissing,  — those  utteii}^  indifferent ; and  the  priests 
clad  in  outlandish  robes,  snuffling  and  chanting  incomprehem 
sible  litanies,  robing,  disrobing,  lighting  up  candles  or  extin- 
guishing them,  advancing,  retreating,  bowing  with  all  sorts  of 
unfamiliar  genuflexions.  Had  it  pleased  the  inventors  of  the 
Sepulchre  topograph}"  to  have  fixed  on  fifty  more  spots  of 
ground  as  the  places  of  the  events  of  the  sacred  stoiy,  the  pil- 
grim would  liave  believed  just  as  now.  The  priest’s  authority 
has  so  mastered  his  faith,  that  it  accommodates  itself  to  an}" 
demand  upon  it ; and  the  English  stranger  looks  on  the  scene, 
for  the  first  time,  with  a feeling  of  scorn,  bewilderment,  and 
shame  at  that  grovelling  credulit}',  those  strange  rites  and  cere- 
monies, that  almost  confessed  imposture. 

Jarred  and  distracted  by  these,  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre,  for  some  time,  seems  to  an  Englishman  the  least 
sacred  spot  about  Jerusalem.  It  is  the  lies,  and  the  legends, 
and  the  priests,  and  their  quarrels,  and  their  ceremonies,  which 
keep  the  Holy  Place  out  of  sight.  A man  has  not  leisure  to 
view  it,  for  the  brawling  of  the  guardians  of  the  spot.  The 
Roman  conquerors,  the}^  say,  raised  up  a statue  of  Venus  in 
this  sacred  place,  intending  to  destroy  all  memoiy  of  it.  I don’t 
think  the  heathen  was  as  criminal  as  the  Christian  is  now.  To 
deny  and  disbelieve,  is  not  so  bad  as  to  make  belief  a ground 
to  cheat  upon.  The  liar  Ananias  perished  for  that ; and  yet 
out  of  these  gates,  where  angels  maj"  have  kept  watch  — out  of 
the  tomb  of  Christ  — Christian  priests  issue  with  a lie  in  their 
hands.  What  a place  to  choose  for  imposture,  good  God ! to 
sully,  with  brutal  struggles  for  self-aggrandizement,  or  shameful 
schemes  of  gain ! 

The  situation  of  the  Tomb  (into  which,  be  it  authentic  or 
not,  no  man  can  enter  without  a shock  of  breathless  fear,  and 
deep  and  awful  self-humiliation,)  must  have  struck  all  travellers. 
It  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  arched  rotunda,  wfiiich  is  common 
to  all  denominations,  and  from  which  branch  off  the  various 
chapels  belonging  to  each  particular  sect.  In  the  Coptic  Chapel 
I saw  one  coal-black  Copt,  in  blue  robes,  cowering  in  the  little 
Cabin,  surrounded  b}"  dingy  lamps,  barbarous  pictures,  and 
cheap,  faded  trumpery.  In  the  Latin  Church  there  was  no 
service  going  on,  onl}"  two  fathers  dusting  the  mouldy  gewgaws 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


405 


along  the  brown  walls,  and  laughing  to  one  another.  The 
gorgeous  church  of  the  Fire  impostors,  hard  b^',  was  always 
more  fully  attended ; as  was  that  of  their  wealth}^  neighbors, 
the  Armenians.  These  three  main  sects  hate  each  other  ; their 
(piarrels  are  interminable  ; each  brilx's  and  intrigues  with  the 
heathen  lords  of  the  soil,  to  the  prejudice  of  his  neighbor.  Now 
it  is  the  Latins  who  interfere,  and  allow  the  common  church 
to  go  to  ruin,  because  the  Greeks  [)urpose  to  roof  it ; now  the 
Greeks  demolish  a monastery  on  Mount  Olivet,  and  leave  the 
ground  to  the  Turks,  ratlier  than  allow  the  Armenians  to  pos- 
sess it.  On  another  occasion,  the  Greeks  having  mended  the  A r- 
menian  steps,  which  led  to  the  (so-called)  Cave  of  the  Nativity  at 
Bethlehem,  the  latter  asked  for  permission  to  destro}^  the  work 
of  the  Greeks,  and  did  so.  And  so  round  this  sacred  spot,  the 
centre  of  Christendom,  the  representatives  of  the  three  great 
sects  worship  under  one  roof,  and  hate  each  other ! 

Above  the  Tomb  of  the  Saviour,  the  cupola  is  open^  and  you 
see  the  blue  sky  overhead.  Which  of  the  builders  w^as  it  that 
had  the  grace  to  leave  that  under  the  high  protection  of  heaven, 
and  not  confine  it  under  the  mouldering  old  domes  and  roofs, 
which  cover  so  much  selfishness,  and  uncharitableness,  and  im- 
posture ! 

We  went  to  Bethlehem,  too ; and  saw  the  apocryphal  won- 
ders there. 

Five  miles’  ride  brings  3^011  from  Jerusalem  to  it,  over  naked 
wav}'  hills  ; the  aspect  of  which,  however,  grows  more  cheerful 
as  you  approach  the  famous  village.  We  passed  the  Convent 
of  Mar  El3^as  on  the  road,  walled  and  barred  like  a fort.  In 
spite  of  its  strength,  however,  it  has  more  than  once  been 
stormed  by  the  Arabs,  and  the  luckless  fathers  within  put  to 
death.  Hard  b}^  was  Rebecca’s  Well:  a dead  bod}'  was  l}'ing 
there,  and  crowds  of  male  and  female  mourners  dancing  and 
howling  round  it.  Now  and  then  a little  troop  of  savage 
scowling  horsemen  — a shepherd  driving  his  black  sheep,  his 
gun  over  his  shoulder  — a troop  of  camels-— or  of  women,  with 
long  blue  robes  and  white  veils,  bearing  pitchers,  and  staring 
at  the  strangers  with  their  great  solemn  eyes  — or  a company 
of  laborers,  with  their  donkeys,  bearing  grain  or  gi*apes  to  the 
cit}',  — met  us  and  enlivened  the  little  ride.  It  was  a busy  and 
cheerful  scene.  The  Church  of  the  Nativit}',  with  the  adjoining 
Convents,  forms  a vast  and  noble  Christian  structure.  A party 
of  travellers  were  going  to  the  Jordan  that  day,  and  scores  of 
their  followers  — of  the  robbing  Arabs,  who  profess  to  protect 


406 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


them,  (magnificent  figures  some  of  them,  with  flowing  haicks 
and  turbans,  with  long  guns  and  scimitars,  and  wretched  horses, 
covered  with  gaudj'  trappings,)  were  standing  on  the  broad 
pavement  before  the  little  Convent  gate.  It  was  such  a scene 
as  Cattermole  might  paint.  Knights  and  Crusaders  may  have 
witnessed  a similar  one.  A^ou  could  fanc}"  them  issuing  out  of 
the  narrow  little  portal,  and  so  greeted  by  the  swarms  of  swarthy' 
clamorous  women  and  merchants  and  children. 

The  scene  within  the  building  was  of  the  same  Gothic  char- 
acter. We  were  entertained  b}^  the  Superior  of  the  Greek  Con- 
vent, in  a fine  refectory,  with  ceremonies  and  hospitalities  that 
pilgrims  of  the  middle  ages  might  have  witnessed.  We  were 
shown  over  the  magnificent  Barbaric  Church,  visited  of  course 
the  Grotto  where  the  Blessed  Nativity  is  said  to  have  taken 
place,  and  the  rest  of  the  idols  set  up  for  worship  by  the  clumsy 
legend.  When  the  visit  was  concluded,  the  partj^  going  to  the 
Dead  Sea  filed  ofl*  with  their  armed  attendants  ; each  individual 
traveller  making  as  brave  a show  as  he  could,  and  personally 
accoutred  with  warlike  swords  and  pistols.  The  picturesque 
crowds,  and  the  Arabs  and  the  horsemen,  in  the  sunshine ; the 
noble  old  convent,  and  the  gray-bearded  priests,  with  their 
feast ; and  the  church,  and  its  pictures  and  columns,  and  in- 
cense ; the  wide  brown  hills  spreading  round  the  village  ; with 
the  accidents  of  the  road,  — flocks  and  shepherds,  wells  and 
funerals,  and  camel-trains,  — have  left  on  my  mind  a brilliant, 
romantic,  and  cheerful  picture.  But  you,  Dear  M , with- 

out visiting  the  place,  have  imagined  one  far  finer ; and  Beth- 
lehem, where  the  Holy  Child  was  born,  and  the  angels  sang, 
‘‘  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  and  on  earth  peace  and  good- 
will towards  men,”  is  the  most  sacred  and  beautiful  spot  in  the 
earth  to  you. 

By  far  the  most  comfortable  quarters  in  Jerusalem  are  those 
of  the  Armenians,  in  their  convent  of  St.  James.  Wherever 
we  have  been,  these  Eastern  quakers  look  grave,  and  joll}^  and 
sleek.  Their  convent  at  Mount  Zion  is  big  enough  to  contain 
two  or  three  thousand  of  their  faithful ; and  their  church  is 
ornamented  b}"  the  most  rich  and  hideous  gifts  ever  devised  by 
uncouth  piet}\  Instead  of  a bell,  the  fat  monks  of  the  convent 
beat  huge  noises  on  a board,  and  drub  the  faithful  in  to  prayers. 

I never  saw  men  more  laz}"  and  rosy,  than  these  reverend 
fathers,  kneeling  in  their  comfortable  matted  church,  or  sitting 
in  easy  devotion.  Pictures,  images,  gilding,  tinsel,  wax-candles, 
twinkle  all  over  the  place : and  ten  thousand  ostricUs’  eggs  (or 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


407 


any  lesser  number  yon  may  allot)  dangle  from  the  vaulted  ceil- 
ing. There  were  great  numbers  of  people  at  worship  in  this 
gorgeous  church  ; they  went  on  their  knees,  kissing  the  walls 
with  much  fervor,  and  paying  reverence  to  the  most  precious 
relic  of  the  convent,  --  the  chair  of  8t.  James,  their  patron,  the 
first  Bishop  of  Jerusalem. 

The  chair  pointed  out  with  greatest  pride  in  the  church  of 
the  Latin  Convent,  is  that  shabby  red  damask  one  appropriated 
to  the  French  Consul,  — the  representative  of  the  king  of  that 
nation,  — and  the  protection  which  it  has  from  time  immemorial 
accorded  to  the  Christians  of  the  Latin  rite  in  Syria.  All 
Fh’ench  writers  and  travellers  speak  of  this  protection  with 
delightful  complacency.  Consult  the  French  books  of  travel  on 
the  subject,  and  ain'  Frenchman  whom  3’ou  may  meet : he  sa}’s, 
“ La  France^  Monsieur^  de  tons  les  temps  prothfe  les  Chretiens 
d' Orient  F'  and  the  little  fellow  looks  round  the  church  with  a 
sweep  of  the  arm,  and  protects  it  accordingly.  It  is  hon  ton  for 
them  to  go  in  processions  ; and  you  see  them  on  such  errands, 
marching  with  long  candles,  as  gravel}"  as  ma}'  be.  But  I have 
never  been  able  to  edit}"  m^’self  with  their  devotion  ; and  the 
rcligious  outpourings  of  Lamartine  and  Chateaubriand,  which 
we  have  all  been  reading  apropos  of  the  journey  we  are  to  make, 
have  inspired  me  with  an  emotion  anything  but  respectful. 
“ Voyez  comnie  M.  de  Chateaubriand  prie  DieiiF  the  Viscount’s 
eloquence  seems  alwa}"s  to  sa}-.  There  is  a sanctified  grimace 
about  the  little  French  pilgrim  which  it  is  veiy  difficult  to  con- 
template gravel}’. 

The  pictures,  images,  and  ornaments  of  the  principal  Latin 
convent  are  quite  mean  and  poor,  compared  to  the  wealth  of 
the  Armenians.  The  convent  is  spacious,  but  squalid.  Many 
hopping  and  crawling  plagues  are  said  to  attack  the  skins  of 
pilgrims  who  sleep  there.  It  is  laid  out  in  courts  and  galleries, 
the  mouldy  doors  of  which  are  decorated  with  twopennny  pic- 
tures of  favorite  saints  and  martyrs  : and  so  great  is  the  shab- 
biness and  laziness,  that  you  might  fancy  yourself  in  a convent 
in  Italy.  Brown-clad  fathers,  dirty,  bearded,  and  sallow,  go 
gliding  about  the  corridors.  Tlie  relic  manufactory  before  men- 
tioned carries  on  a considerable  business,  and  despatches  bales 
of  shells,  crosses,  and  beads  to  believers  in  Europe.  These 
constitute  the  chief  revenue  of  the  convent  now.  Za  France  is 
no  longer  the  most  Christian  kingdom,  and  her  protection  of 
the  Latins  is  not  good  for  much  since  Charles  X.  was  expelled; 
and  Spain,  which  used  likewise  to  be  generous  on  occasions, 
(the  gifts,  arms,  candlesticks,  baldaquins  of  the  Spanish  sover* 


408 


JEASTERK^  SKETCHES. 


eigns  figure  pretty  frequentlj'  in  the  various  Latin  chapels,)  has 
been  stingy  since  the  late  disturbances,  the  spoliation  of  the 
clergy,  &c.  After  we  had  been  taken  to  see  the  humble  curi- 
osities of  the  place,  the  Prior  treated  us  in  his  wooden  parlor 
with  little  glasses  of  pink  Rosolio,  brought  with  many  bows  and 
genuflexions  by  his  reverence  the  convent  butler. 

After  this  community  of  hoty  men,  the  most  important  per- 
haps is  the  American  Convent,  a Protestant  congregation  of 
Independents  chiefly,  who  deliver  tracts,  propose  to  make  con- 
verts, have  meetings  of  their  own,  and  also  swell  the  little  con- 
gregation that  attends  the  Anglican  service.  I have  mentioned 
our  fellow-traveller,  the  Consul-General  for  Syria  of  the  United 
States.  He  was  a tradesman,  who  had  made  a considerable  for- 
tune, and  lived  at  a countiy-house  in  comfortable  retirement. 
But  his  opinion  is,  that  the  prophecies  of  Scripture  are  about 
to  be  accomplished  ; that  the  day  of  the  return  of  the  Jews  is 
at  hand,  and  the  glorification  of  the  restored  Jerusalem.  He 
is  to  witness  this  — he  and  a favorite  dove  w ith  wLich  he  trav- 
els ; and  he  forsook  home  and  comfortable  countiy -house,  in 
order  to  make  this  journe}^  He  has  no  other  knowledge  of 
S3U‘ia  but  what  he  derives  from  the  prophec}^ ; and  this  (as  he 
takes  the  office  gratis)  has  been  considered  a sufficient  reason 
for  his  appointment  Ity  the  United  States  Government.  As 
soon  as  he  arrived,  he  sent  and  demanded  an  interview  with 
the  Pasha ; explained  to  him  his  interpretation  of  the  Apoca- 
lypse, in  which  he  has  discovered  that  the  Five  Powers  and 
America  are  about  to  intervene  in  S3U’ian  affairs,  and  the  infal 
lible  return  of  the  Jews  to  Palestine.  The  news  must  have 
astonished  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Sublime  Porte ; and  since  the 
days  of  the  Kingdom  of  Munster,  under  his  Anabaptist  Majesty, 
John  of  Leyden,  I doubt  whether  any  Government  has  received 
or  appointed  so  queer  an  ambassador.  The  kind,  worthy, 
simple  man  took  me  to  his  temporary  consulate-house  at  the 
American  Missionar3"  Establishment ; and,  under  pretence  of 
treating  me  to  white  wine,  expounded  his  ideas  ; talked  of  fu- 
turity as  he  would  about  an  article  in  The  Times ; and  had  no 
more  doubt  of  seeing  a divine  kingdom  established  in  Jeru- 
salem than  you  that  there  will  be  a levee  next  spring  at  St. 
James’s.  The  little  room  in  which  we  sat  was  padded  with 
missionary  tracts,  but  I heard  of  scarce  aii3^  converts  — not 
more  than  are  made  1)3"  our  own  Episcopal  establishment. 

But  if  the  latter’s*^  religious  victories  are  small,  and  very 
few  people  are  induced  by  the  American  tracts,  and  the  EngMsh 
preaching  and  catechising,  to  forsake  their  own  manner  of 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


409 


worshipping  the  Divine  Being  in  order  to  follow  onrs  ; }^et 
surely  our  religious  colony  of  men  and  women  can’t  fail  to  do 
good,  b}'  the  sheer  force  of  good  example,  pure  life,  and  kind 
offices.  The  ladies  of  the  mission  have  numbers  of  clients,  of 
all  persuasions,  in  the  town,  to  whom  the}’  extend  their  chari- 
ties. Placli  of  their  houses  is  a model  of  neatness,  and  a dis- 
pensary of  gentle  kindnesses  ; and  the  ecclesiastics  have  formed 
a modest  centre  of  civilization  in  the  place.  A dreaiy  joke  was 
made  in  the  House  of  Commons  about  Bisho[)  Alexander  and 
the  Bishopess  his  lady,  and  the  Bislioi)lings,  his  numerous 
children,  who  were  said  to  have  scandalized  the  people  of  Jeru- 
salem. That  sneer  evidently  came  from  the  Latins  and  Greeks  ; 
for  what  could  the  Jews  and  Turks  care  because  an  English 
clergyman  had  a wife  and  children  as  their  own  priests  have? 
There  was  no  sort  of  ill-will  exhibited  towards  them,  as  far  as  1 
could  learn  ; and  I saw  the  Bishop’s  children  riding  about  the 
.town  as  safely  as  the}’ could  about  Hyde  Park.  All  Europeans, 
indeed,  seemed  to  me  to  be  received  with  forbearance,  and 
almost  courtesy,  within  the  walls.  As  1 was  going  about  mak- 
ing sketches,  the  people  would  look  on  very  good-humoredly, 
without  offering  the  least  interruption  ; nay,  two  or  three  were 
quite  ready  to  stand  still  for  such  a humlde  portrait  as  my 
pencil  could  make  of  them ; and  the  sketch  done,  it  was 
passed  from  one  person  to  another,  each  making  his  comments, 
and  signifying  a very  polite  approval.  Here  are  a pair  of 
them,  Fath  Allah  and 
Ameenut  Daoodee 
his  father,  horse-deal- 
ers by  trade,  who 
came  and  sat  with 
us  at  the  inn,  and 
smoked  pipes  (the 
sun  being  down), 
while  the  original  of 
this  masterpiece  was 
made.  With  the 
Arabs  outside  the 
walls,  however,  and 
the  freshly  arriving 
country  - people,  this 
politeness  was  not 
so  much  exhibited. 

There  was  a certain 
tattooed  girl,  with 


410 


EASTERJl  SKETCHES. 


black  C3'es  and  huge  silver  ear  rings,  and  a chin  delicately 
l)icked  out  with  blue,  who  formed  one  of  a group  of  women 
outside  the  great  convent,  whose  likeness  I longed  to  carry  off ; 
— there  was  a woman  with  a little  child,  with  wondering  e}"es, 
drawing  water  at  the  pool  of  Siloam,  in  such  an  attitude  and 
dress  as  Rebecca  ma^^  have  had  when  Isaac’s  lieutenant  asked 
her  for  drink: — both  of  these  parties  standing  still  for  half 
a minute,  at  the  next  cried  out  for  backsheesh  ; and  not  content 
with  the  five  piastres  which  I gave  them  individuallj^  screamed 
out  for  more,  and  summoned  their  friends,  who  screamed  out 
backsheesh  too.  I was  pursued  into  the  convent  by  a dozen 
howling  women  calling  for  pa}^,  barring  the  door  against  them, 
to  the  astonishment  of  the  worth}’  papa  wlio  kept  it ; and  at 
Miriam’s  Well  the  women  were  joined  by  a man  with  a large 
stick,  who  backed  their  petition.  But  him  we  could  afford  to 
laugh  at,  for  we  were  two,  and  had  sticks  likewise.  , 

In  the  village  of  Siloam  I would  not  recommend  the  artist 
to  loiter.  A colony  of  ruffians  inhabit  the  dismal  place,  who 
have  guns  as  well  as  sticks  at  need.  Their  dogs  howl  after  the 
strangers  as  they  pass  through  ; and  over  the  parapets  of  their 
walls  you  are  saluted  by  the  scowls  of  a villanous  set  of  coun- 
tenances, that  it  is  not  good  to  see  with  one  pair  of  eyes.  They 
shot  a man  at  mid-day  at  a few  hundred  yards  from  the  gates 
while  we  were  at  Jerusalem,  and  no  notice  was  taken  of  the 
murder.  Hordes  of  Arab  robbers  infest  the  neighborhood  of 
the  city,  with  the  Sheikhs  of  whom  travellers  make  terms  when 
minded  to  pursue  their  Journey.  I never  could  understand  why 
the  walls  stopped  these  warriors  if  they  had  a mind  to  plunder 
the  city,  for  there  are  but  a hundred  and  fifty  men  in  the  gar- 
rison to  man  the  long  lonely  lines  of  defence. 

I have  seen  only  in  Titian’s  pictures  those  magnificent  pur- 
ple shadows  in  which  the  hills  round  about  lay,  as  the  dawn 
, rose  faintly  behind  them  ; and  we  looked  at  Olivet  for  the  last 
time  from  our  terrace,  where  we  were  awaiting  the  arrival  of 
the  horses  that  were  to  carry  us  to  Jaffa.  A yellow  moon 
w’as  still  blazing  in  the  midst  of  countless  brilliant  stars  over- 
head ; the  nakedness  and  misery  of  the  surrounding  city  were 
hidden  in  that  beautiful  rosy  atmosphere  of  mingling  night  and 
dawn.  The  city  never  looked  so  noble  ; the  mosques,  domes, 
and  minarets  rising  u}')  into  the  calm  starlit  sky. 

By  the  gate  of  "Bethlehem  there  stands  one  palm-tree,  and 
ft  house  w’ith  three  domes.  But  these  and  the  huge  old  Gothic 
gate  as  a background  dark  against  the  yellowing  eastern  sky ; 


FROM  CORXlllLL  TO  CAIRO. 


411 


the  foreground  is  a deep  gra^^ : as  3^011  look  into  it  dark  forms 
of  horsemen  come  out  of  the  twilight : now  there  come  lan- 
terns, more  horsemen,  a litter  with  mules,  a crowd  of  Arab 
liorsel)03’S  and  dealers  accom[)an3'ing  tlieir  beasts  to  the  gate  ; 
all  the  mem])ers  of  our  party  come  up  by  twos  and  threes ; 
and,  at  last,  the  great  gate  opens  just  before  sunrise,  and  we 
get  into  the  gray  })lains. 

Oh  ! the  luxury  of  an  English  saddle  ! An  English  servant 
of  one  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  mission  })rocured  it  for  me,  on 
the  hack  of  a little  mare,  which  (as  1 am  a light  weight)  did 
not  turn  a hair  in  the  course  of  the  day’s  march  — and  after 
we  got  quit  of  the  ugly,  stony,  clattering,  mountainous  Abou 
Gosh  district,  into  the  fair  imdiilating  plain,  which  stretches  to 
Ramleh,  carried  me  into  the  town  at  a pleasant  hand-gallop. 
A negro,  of  ])reternatural  ugliness,  in  a yellow  gown,  witli  a 
crimson  handkerchief  streaming  over  his  head,  digging  his 
shovel  spurs  into  the  lean  animal  he  rode,  and  driving  three 
others  before  — swaA’ing  backwards  and  forwards  on  his  horse, 
now  embracing  his  ears,  and  now  almost  under  his  belly, 
screaming  “ yallah  ” with  the  most  frightful  shrieks,  and  sing- 
ing country  songs — gallo[)cd  along  ahead  of  me.  I acquired 
one  of  his  poems  pretty  well,  and  could  imitate  his  shriek  ac- 
curately ; but  1 shall  not  have  the  [)leasure  of  singing  it  to  3’ou 
in  Phigland.  1 had  forgotten  the  delightful  dissonance  two 
days  after,  both  the  negio’s  and  that  of  a real  Arab  minstrel, 
a donke3'-driver  acconq)an3  ing  our  baggage,  who  sang  and 
grinned  with  the  most  amusing  good-humor. 

AVe  halted,  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  in  a little  wood  of 
olive-trees,  wliich  forms  almost  the  only  shelter  between  Jaffa 
and  Jerusalem,  except  that  afforded  b}’  the  orchards  in  the 
odious  village  of  Abou  Gosh,  through  which  we  went  at  a 
double-quick  pace.  Under  the  olives,  or  up  in  the  branches, 
some  of  our  friends  took  a siesta.  I have  a sketch  of  four  of 
them  so  employed.  Two  of  them  w^ere  dead  within  a month  of 
the  fatal  83Tian  fever.  But  we  did  not  know  how  near  fate  was 
to  us  then.  Fires  were  lighted,  and  fowls  and  eggs  divided,  and 
tea  and  coffee  served  round  in  tin  panikins,  and  here  we  lighted 
pipes,  and  smoked  and  laughed  at  our  ease.  I believe  every- 
bod}"  was  happy  to  be  out  of  Jerusalem.  The  impression  I 
have  of  it  now  is  of  ten  days  passed  in  a fever. 

We  all  found  quarters  in  the  Greek  convent  at  Ramleh, 
where  the  monks  served  us  a supper  on  a terrace,  in  a pleasant 
sunset;  a beautiful  and  cheerful  landscape  stretching  around  ; 
the  land  in  graceful  undulations,  the  towers  and  mosques  rosy 


412 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


in  the  sunset,  with  no  lack  of  verdure,  especially  of  graceful 
palms.  Jaffa  was  nine  miles  off.  As  we  rode  all  the  morning 
we  had  been  accompanied  by  the  smoke  of  our  steamer,  twenty 
miles  off  at  sea. 

The  convent  is  a huge  caravanserai ; only  three  or  four 
monks  dwell  in  it,  the  ghostly  hotel-keepers  of  the  place.  The 
horses  were  tied  up  and  fed  in  the  court-yard,  into  which  we  rode  ; 
above  were  the  living-rooms,  where  there  is  accommodation, 
not  only  for  an  unlimited  number  of  pilgrims,  but  for  a vast 
and  innumerable  host  of  hopping  and  crawling  things,  who 
usuall}^  persist  in  partaking  of  the  traveller’s  bed.  Let  all 
thin-skinned  travellers  in  the  East  be  warned  on  no  account  to 
travel  without  the  admirable  invention  described  in  Mr.  Fel- 
lowes’  book  ; nay,  possibly  invented  by  that  enterprising  and 
learned  traveller.  You  make  a sack,  of  calico  or  linen,  big 
enough  for  the  body,  appended  to  which  is  a closed  chimney 
of  muslin,  stretched  out  b}'  cane-hoops,  and  fastened  up  to  a 
beam,  or  against  the  wall.  You  keep  a sharp  eye  to  see  that 
no  flea  or  bug  is  on  the  look-out,  and  when  assured  of  this, 
you  pop  into  the  bag,  tightly  closing  the  orifice  after  you. 
This  admirable  bug-(lisappointer  1 tried  at  Ramleh,  and  had 
the  Old}’  undisturbed  night’s  rest  I enjoyed  in  the  east.  To  be 
sure  it  was  a short  night,  for  our  party  were  stirring  at  one 
o’clock,  and  those  who  got  up  insisted  on  talking  and  keeping 
awake  those  who  inclined  to  slee[).  But  1 shall  never  forget 
the  terror  ins[)ired  in  my  mind,  being  shut  up  in  the  bug-dis- 
a[)pointer,  wlicn  a facetious  lay-brother  of  the  convent  fell 
upon  me  and  began  tickling  me.  I never  had  the  courage  again 
to  try  the  anti-flea  contrivance,  preferring  the  friskiness  of 
those  animals  to  the  sports  of  such  a greasy  grinning  wag  as 
my  friend  at  Ramleh. 

In  the  morning,  and  long  before  sunrise,  our  little  caravan 
Was  in  marching  order  again.  We  went  out  with  lanterns  and 
shouts  of  “yallah”  through  the  narrow  streets,  and  issued 
into  the  plain,  where,  though  there  was  no  moon,  there  were 
blazing  stars  shining  steadil}’  overhead.  The}'  become  friends 
to  a man  who  travels,  especially  under  the  clear  Eastern  sky  ; 
whence  the}'  look  down  as  if  protecting  yon,  solemn,  yellow, 
and  refulgent.  They  seem  nearer  to  vou  than  in  Europe  ; 
larger  and  more  awful.  So  we  rode  on  till  the  dawn  rose,  and 
Jaffa  came  in  view.  The  friendly  ship  was  lying  out  in  waiting 
for  us  ; the  horses  were  given  up  to  their  owners  : and  in  the 
midst  of  a crowd  of  naked  beggars,  and  a perfect  storm  of 
curses  and  yells  for  backsheesh,  our  party  got  into  their  boats» 


FROM  COllNlilLL  TO  CAIRO. 


413 


and  to  the  ship,  where  we  were  welcomed  by  the  very  best 
captain  that  ever  sailed  upon  tliis  maritime  globe,  namel}’, 
Captain  Samuel  Lewis  of  the  Peninsular  and  Oriental  Com^ 
pany’s  Service. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

FROM  JAFFA  TO  ALEXANDRIA. 


[From  the  Provider's  Log- Book. \ 


BILL  OF  FARE,  October  12th. 


Mulligatawny  Soup. 

Salt  Fisli  ami  Egg  Sauce. 

Roast  Haunch  of  Mutton. 

Boiled  Slioulder  and  Onion  Sauce. 
Boiled  Beef. 

Roast  Fowls. 

Pillau  ditto. 

Ham. 

Haricot  Mutton. 

Curry  and  Rice. 


Cabbage. 

French  Beans. 
Boiled  Potatoes. 
Baked  ditto. 

Damson  Tart. 
Currant  ditto. 
Rice  Puddings. 
Currant  Fritters. 


We  were  just  at  the  port’s  mouth  — and  could  see  the  tow- 
ers and  building’s  of  Alexandria  rising  purple  against  the  sun- 
set, when  the  report  of  a gun  came  booming  over  the  calm 
golden  water;  and  we  heard,  with  much  mortillcation,  that  we 
had  no  chance  of  getting  pratique  that  night.  Already  the 
ungrateful  passengers  had  begun  to  tire  of  the  ship,  — though 
in  our  absence  in  Syria  it  had  been  carefully  cleansed  and 
purified  ; though  it  was  cleared  of  the  swarming  Jews  who 
had  infested  the  decks  all  the  way  from  Constantinople  ; and 
though  we  had  been  feasting  and  carousing  in  the  manner  de- 
scribed  above. 

But  very  early  next  morning  we  bore  into  the  harbor, 
bus3’  with  a great  quantity  of  craft.  We  passed  huge  black 
hulks  of  mouldering  men-of-war,  from  the  sterns  of  which 
trailed  the  dirty  red  flag,  with  the  star  and  crescent ; boats, 
manned  with  red-capped  seamen,  and  captains  and  steersmen 
in  beards  and  tarbooshes,  passed  continualty  among  these  old 
hulks,  the  rowers  bending  to  their  oars,  so  that  at  each  stroke 
the}’  disappeared  bodily  in  the  boat.  Besides  these,  there  was 
a large  fleet  of  countiy  ships,  and  stars  and  stripes,  and  tri- 
colors, and  Union  Jacks ; and  many  active  steamers,  of  the 


414 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


French  and  English  companies,  shooting  in  and  out  of  the 
harbor,  or  moored  in  the  briii}^  waters.  The  ship  of  our  com- 
pany, the  “Oriental,”  lay  there  — a palace  upon  the  brine, 
and  some  of  the  Pasha’s  steam- vessels  likewise,  looking  very 
like  Christian  boats  ; but  it  was  queer  to  look  at  some  unin- 
telligible Turkish  flourish  painted  on  the  stern,  and  the  long- 
tailed Arabian  hieroglyphics  gilt  on  the  paddle-boxes.  Our 
dear  friend  and  comrade  of  Beyrout  (if  we  may  be  permitted 
to  call  her  so),  II. M. 8.  “ Trump,”  was  in  the  harbor ; and  the 
captain  of  that  gallant  ship,  coming  to  greet  us,  drove  some  of 
us  on  shore  in  his  gig. 

I had  been  preparing  myself  overnight,  by  the  help  of  a 
cigar  and  a moonlight  contemplation  on  deck,  for  sensations 
on  landing  in  Egypt.  I was  ready  to  yield  myself  up  with 
solemnit}'  to  the  mystic  grandeur  of  the  scene  of  initiation. 
Pomi)ey’s  Pillar  must  stand  like  a mountain,  in  a yellow  plain, 
surrounded  by  a grove  of  obelisks  as  tall  as  palm-trees.  Placid 
sphinxes  brooding  o’er  the  Nile  — mighty  Memnonian  counte- 
nances calm  — had  revealed  Egypt  to  me  in  a sonnet  of  Tenny- 
son’s, and  I was  ready  to  gaze  on  it  with  pyramidal  wonder 
and  hieroglyphic  awe. 

The  landing  quay  at  Alexandria  is  like  the  dockyard  quay  at 
Portsmouth  ; with  a few  score  of  brown  faces  scattered  among 
the  i)opulation.  There  are  slop-sellers,  dealers  in  marine-, 
stores,  bottled-})orter  shops,  seamen  lolling  about ; flies  and 
cabs  arc  plying  lor  hire  : and  a yelling  chorus  of  donkey-bo^^s,  ‘ 
shrieking,  “ Bide,  sir  ! — donkey,  sir  ! — I say,  sir  ! ” in  excel-  , 

lent  English,  disi)el  all  romantic  notions.  The  placid  sphinxes  - 

brooding  o’er  the  Nile  disapi)earcd  with  that  shriek  of  the  don-  ; 

key-boys.  You  might  be  as  well  impressed  with  Wapping  as 
with  your  first  step  on  Egyptian  soil. 

The  riding  of  a donkey  is,  after  all,  not  a dignified  occupa- 
tion. A man  resists  the  ofler  at  first,  somehow,  as  an  indignity.  ; 
How  is  that  poor  little,  red-saddled,  long-eared  creature  to  carry 
you?  Is  there  to  be  one  for  you  and  another  for  3’our  legs?  ^ 
Natives  and  Europeans,  of  all  sizes,  pass  bv,  it  is  true,  mounted  4 

upon  the  same  contrivance.  I waited  until  I got  into  a veiy  pri-  \ 

vate  spot,  where  nobod}'  could  see  me,  and  then  ascended  — why  • 
not  say  descended,  at  once?  — on  the  poor  little  animal.  In- 
stead of  being  crushed  at  once,  as  perhaps  the  rider  expected, 
it  darted  forward,  quite  briskly  and  cheerfully,  at  six  or  seven 
miles  an  hour  ; requiring  no  spur  or  admonitive  to  haste,  except 
Mie  shrieking  of  the  little  Egyptian  gamin,  who  ran  along  by 
'sinus’s  side. 


FKOM  COUXIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


415 


The  character  of  the  houses  by  which  you  pass  is  scarcely 
Eastern  at  all.  The  streets  are  bus}'  with  a motley  popula- 
tion of  Jews  and  Armenians,  slave-driving-looking  Europeans, 
large-breeclicd  Gi'ceks,  and  well-shaven  buxom  merchants, 
lookiim'  as  trim  and  fat  as  those  on  the  Bourse  or  on  ’Change  ; 
only,  among  the  natives,  the  stranger  can’t  lail  to  remark  (as 
the  Calii)h  did  of  the  Calendars,  in  the  “Arabian  Nights”) 
that  so  many  of  them  have  onhj  one  ejje.  It  is  the  horrid  oi)h- 
thahnia  which  has  [)layed  such  frightful  ravages  with  them. 
You  see  children  sitting  in  the  door\va\-s,  their  e}  es  completely 
closed  lip  with  the  green  sickening  sore,  and  the  Hies  feeding 
on  them.  Five  or  six  minutes  of  the  donkey-ride  brings  you 
to  the  Frank  quarter,  and  the  handsome  broad  street  (like 
a street  of  Marseilles)  where  the  (irincipal  hotels  and  mer- 
chants’ houses  are  to  be  found,  and  where  the  consuls  have 
their  houses,  and  hoist  their  (lags.  The  palace  uf  the  French 
Consul-General  makes  the  grandest  slimv  in  the  street,  and 
presents  a great  contrast  to  the  humble  abode  of  the  English 
representative,  who  protects  his  fellow-countrymen  from  a 
second  lloor. 

But  that  Alexandrian  two-[)air-front  of  a Consulate  was 
more  welcome  and  cheering  than  a palace  to  most  of  us.  For 
thei-e  la}'  certain  letters,  with  post-marks  of  Home  upon  them  ; 
and  kindly  tidings,  the  first  heard  for  two  months:  — though 
we  had  seen  so  many  men  and  cities  since,  that  Cornhill  seemed 
to  be  a year  off,  at  least,  with  certain  persons  dwelling  (more  or 
less)  in  that  vicinity.  I saw  a young  Oxford  man  seize  his 
despatches,  and  slink  off  with  several  letters,  written  in  a tight, 
neat  hand,  and  sedulously  crossed  ; which  any  man  could  see, 
without  looking  farther,  were  the  handiwork  of  J\lary  Ann,  to 
whom  he  is  attached.  The  lawyer  received  a bundle  from  his 
chambers,  in  which  his  clerk  eased  his  soul  regarding  the  state 
of  Snooks  Rodgers,  Smith  ats  Tomkins,  &c.  The  states- 
man had  a packet  of  thick  envelopes,  decorated  with  that  pro- 
fusion of  sealing-wax  in  which  official  recklessness  lavishes  the 
resources  of  the  country  : and  your  humble  servant  got  just  one 
little,  modest  letter  containing  another,  written  in  pencil  char- 
acters, varying  in  size  between  one  and  two  inches  ; but  how 
much  pleasanter  to  read  than  my  lord’s  despatch,  or  the  clerk’s 
account  of  Smith  ats  Tomkins,  — yes,  even  than  the  Mary 
Ann  correspondence!  . . . . Yes,  my  dear  madam,  you  will 
understand  me,  when  I say  that  it  was  from  little  Polly  at 
home,  with  some  confidential  news  about  a cat,  and  the  last 
report  of  her  new  doll. 


416 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


It  is  worth  while  to  haA^e  made  the  journey  for  this  pleasure  : 
to  have  walked  the  deck  on  long  nights,  and  have  thought  of 
home.  You  have  no  leisure  to  do  so  in  the  cit\^  You  don’t 
see  the  heavens  shine  above  }"ou  so  purely  there,  or  the  stars 
so  clearly.  How,  after  the  perusal  of  the  above  documents, 
we  enjoj^ed  a file  of  the  admirable  Gulignani ; and  what  O’Con- 
nell was  doing ; and  the  twelve  last  new  victories  of  the 
French  in  Algeria ; and,  abovx^  all,  six  or  seven  numbers  of 
Punch  1 There  might  have  been  an  avenue  of  Pompey’s  Pillars 
within  reach,  and  a live  sphinx  sporting  on  the  banks  of  the 
Mahmoodieh  Canal,  and  we  would  not  have  stirred  to  see 
them,  until  Punch  had  had  his  interview  and  Galignani  was 
dismissed. 

The  curiosities  of  Alexandria  are  few,  and  easily  seen.  We 
went  into  the  bazaars,  which  have  a much  more  Eastern  look 
than  the  European  quarter,  Avith  its  Anglo-Gallic-Italian  inhab- 
itants, and  Babel-like  civilization.  Here  and  there  a large 
hotel,  clumsy  and  whitewashed,  with  Oriental  trellised  win- 
dows, and  a couple  of  slouching  sentinels  at  the  doors,  in  the 
ugliest  composite  uniform  that  ever  was  seen,  was  pointed  out 
as  the  residence  of  some  great  officer  of  the  Pasha’s  Court,  or 
of  one  of  the  numerous  children  of  the  Egyptian  Solomon.  His 
Highness  was  in  his  own  palace,  and  was  consequently  not  visi- 
ble. He  was  in  deep  grief,  and  sl^rict  retirement.  It  was  at 
this  time  that  the  European  newspapers  announced  that  he  was 
about  to  resign  his  empire  ; but  the  quidnuncs  of  Alexandria 
hinted  that  a love-affair,  in  which  the  old  potentate  had  engaged 
with  senile  extravagance,  and  the  effects  of  a potion  of  hachich, 
or  some  deleterious  drug,  with  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
intoxicating  himself,  had  brought  on  that  languor  and  desperate 
weariness  of  life  and  governing,  into  which  the  venerable  Prince 
was  plunged.  Before  three  da}'S  were  over,  however,  the  fit 
had  left  him,  and  he  determined  to  live  and  reign  a little  longer. 
A veiy  few  daj^s  afterwards  several  of  our  part}^  were  presented 
to  him  at  Cairo,  and  found  the  great  Egyptian  ruler  perfectly 
convalescent. 

This  and  the  Opera,  and  the  quarrels  of  the  two  prime  donne^ 
and  the  beauty  of  one  of  them,  formed  the  chief  subjects  of 
conversation ; and  I had  this  important  news  in  the  shop  of  a 
certain  barber  in  the  town,  who  conveyed  it  in  a language  com- 
posed of  French,  Spanish,  and  Italian,  and  with  a volubility 
quite  worthy  of  a barber  of  Gil  Bias. 

Then  we  went  to  see  the  famous  obelisk  presented  by  Me- 
hemet  Ali  to  the  British  Government,  who  have  not  shown  a 


FKOM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


417 


particular  alacrit}-  to  accept  this  ponderous  present.  The  huge 
shaft  lies  on  the  ground  prostrate,  and  desecrated  by  all  sorts 
of  abominations.  Children  were  sprawling  about,  attracted  by 
the  dirt  there.  Arabs,  negroes,  and  donkey-boj  s were  passing, 
quite  inditferent,  by  the  fallen  monster  of  a stone,  — as  indif- 
ferent as  the  British  Government,  who  don’t  care  for  recording 
the  glorious  termination  of  their  Egyptian  campaign  of  1801. 
If  our  countr}^  takes  the  compliment  so  cooll^q  surely'  it  would 
be  disloyal  upon  our  parts  to  be  more  enthusiastic.  1 wish 
they  would  offer  the  Trafalgar  Square  Pillar  to  the  Egyptians; 
and  that  both  of  the  huge,  ugly  monsters  were  l^dng  in  the  dirt 
there,  side  b3"  side. 

Pompey’s  Pillar  is  b}'  no  means  so  big  as  the  Charing  Cross 
trophy.  This  venerable  column  has  not  escaped  ill-treatment 
either.  Numberless  ships’  companies,  travelling  Cockneys, 
&c.,  have  affixed  their  rude  marks  upon  it.  Some  daring  ruf- 
fian even  painted  the  name  of  “ Warren’s  blacking”  upon  it, 
effacing  other  inscriptions, — one,  Wilkinson  sa}’s,  “of  the 
second  Psammetichus.”  1 regret  deeplj^  ni}^  dear  friend,  that 
I cannot  give  3^011  this  document  respecting  a lamented  monarch, 
in  whose  history  I know  3’ou  take  such  an  interest. 

The  best  sight  I saw  in  Alexandria  was  a negro  holida}" ; 
which  was  celebrated  outside  of  the  town  by  a sort  of  negro 
village  of  huts,  swarming  with  old,  lean,  fat,  ugly,  infantine, 
happ3^  faces,  that  nature  has  smeared  with  a preparation  even 
more  black  and  durable  than  that  with  wdiich  Psammetichus’s 
base  has  been  polished.  Every  one  of  these  jolly  faces  was 
on  the  broad  grin,  from  the  dusky  mother  to  the  India-rubber 
child  sprawling  upon  her  back,  and  the  venerable  Jett3"  senior 
whose  wool  was  as  white  as  that  of  a sheep  in  Florian’s  pas- 
torals. 

To  these  dancers  a couple  of  fellows  were  playing  on  a drum 
and  a little  banjo.  The3"  were  singing  a chorus,  which  was  not 
onl3'  singular,  and  perfectly  marked  in  the  rhythm,  but  exceed- 
ing sweet  in  the  tune.  The3'  danced  in  a circle  ; and  perform- 
ers came  trooping  from  all  quarters,  who  fell  into  the  round, 
and  began  waggling  their  heads,  and  waving  their  left  hands, 
and  tossing  up  and  down  the  little  thin  rods  which  the3"  each 
carried,  and  all  singing  to  the  very  best  of  their  power. 

I saw  the  chief  eunuch  of  the  Grand  Turk  at  Constantinople 
pass  Iw  — but  with  what  a different  expression  ! Though  he  is 
one  of  the  greatest  of  the  great  in  the  Turkish  Empire  (ranking 
with  a Cabinet  Minister  or  Lord  Chamberlain  here),  his  fine 
wuntenance  was  clouded  with  care,  and  savage  with  ennui. 

27 


418 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


Here  his  black  brethren  were  ragged,  starving,  and  happy; 
and  I need  not  tell  such  a tine  moralist  as  }'Ou  are,  how  it  is  the 
case,  in  the  white  as  well  as  the  black  world,  that  happiness 
(republican  leveller,  who  does  not  care  a fig  for  the  fashion) 
often  disdains  the  turrets  of  kings,  to  pay  a visit  to  the  “ taber- 
nas  pauperum.” 

We  went  the  round  of  the  coffee-houses  in  the  evening,  both 
the  polite  European  })laces  of  resort,  where  you  get  ices  and  the 
French  papers,  and  those  in  the  town,  where  Greeks,  Turks, 
and  general  company  resort,  to  sit  upon  uncomfortable  chairs, 
and  drink  wretched  muddy  coffee,  and  to  listen  to  two  or  three 
miserable  musici'ans,  who  keep  up  a variation  of  howling  for 
hours  together.  But  the  prett}'  song  of  the  niggers  had  spoiled 
me  for  that  abominable  music. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

TO  CAIRO. 

Wr:  had  no  need  of  hiring  the  country  boats  which  ply  on 
the  JMahmoodieh  Canal  to  Atleh,  where  it  joins  the  Nile,  but 
were  accommodated  in  one  of  the  Peninsular  and  Oriental 
(■ompauy’s  ily-boats  ; [iretty  similar  to  those  narrow  Irish  canal- 
boats  in  which  the  enter[)rising  traveller  has  been  carried  from 
Dublin  to  Ballinasloe.  The  i)resent  boat  was,  to  be  sure,  tugged 
by  a little  steamer,  so  that  the  Egyptian  canal  is  ahead  of  the 
Irish  in  so  far:  in  natural  scenery,  the  one  prospect  is  fully 
c(iual  to  tlie  other ; it  must  be  confessed  that  there  is  nothing 
to  see.  In  truth,  there  was  nothing  l)ut  this  : you  saw  a muddy 
bank  on  each  side  of  you,  and  a blue  sky  overhead.  A few 
round  mud-liuts  and  palm-trees  were  planted  along  the  line 
liere  and  there.  Sometimes  wc  would  see,  on  the  water-side,  a 
woman  in  a blue  rol)e,  with  her  son  by  her,  in  that  tight  brown 
costume  with  which  Nature  had  supplied  him.  Now,  it  was  a 
liat  dropped  by  one  of  the  jiarty  into  the  water ; a brown  Arab 
l)lunged  and  disappeared  incontinenth’  after  the  hat,  re-issued 
from  the  muddy  water,  prize  in  hand,  and  ran  naked  after  the 
little  steamer  (which  was  by  tins  time  far  ahead  of  him),  his 
bramy  limbs  shining  in  the  sun  : then  we  had  half-cold  fowls 
and  fitter  ale ; then  we  had  dinner  — bitter  ale  and  cold  fowls; 


EGYPTIAN  VILLA. 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


419 


with  which  incidents  the  day  on  the  canal  passed  away,  as 
harmlessly  as  il‘  we  had  been  in  a Dutch  trackschu3  t. 

Towards  evening  we  arrived  at  the  town  of  Atfeh  — half 
land,  half  houses,  half  palm-trees,  with  swarms  of  half-naked 
people  crowding  the  rustic  shad}'  bazaars,  and  bartering  their 
produce  of  fruit  or  many-colored  grain.  ‘Here  the  canal  came 
to  a check,  ending  abruptly  with  a large  lock.  A little  licet  of 
masts  and  country  ships  were  beyond  the  lock,  and  it  led  into 
The  Nile. 

Aftei'  all,  it  is  something  to  have  seen  these  red  waters.  It  is 
only  low  green  banks,  mud-huts,  and  })alni-clumps,  with  the  sun 
setting  red  behind  them,  and  the  great,  dull,  sinuous  river 
flashing  here  and  there  in  the  light.  l>ut  it  is  the  Nile,  the  old 
Saturn  of  a stream  — a divinity  yi't,  though  younger  l iver-gods 
have  deposed  him.  Hail!  O venerable  father  of  crocodiles  I 
We  were  all  lost  in  sentiments  of  the  profoundest  awe  and 
respect;  which  we  [>roved  by  tuml)liug  down  into  the  cabin  of 
the  Nile  steamer  that  was  waiting  to  receive  us,  and  lighting 
and  cheating  for  sleeping  berths. 

At  dawn  in  the  morning  we  were  on  deck  ; the  character  had 
not  altered  of  the  scenery  al)Out  the  river,  \bist  Hat  stretches 
of  land  were  on  either  side,  recovering  from  the  subsiding  in- 
andations  : near  the  mud  villages,  a country  ship  or  two  was 
roosting  under  the  date-trees  ; the  landscape  everywhere  stretch- 
ing away  level  and  lonely.  In  the  sky  in  the  east  was  a long 
streak  of  greenish  liglit,  which  widened  and  rose  until  it  grew 
to  be  of  an  opal  color,  then  orange  ; then,  behold,  the  round 
red  disc  of  the  sun  rose  flaming  up  above  the  horizon.  All  the 
water  blushed  as  he  got  up  ; the  deck  was  all  red  ; the  steersman 
^ave  his  helm  to  another,  and  prostrated  himself  on  the  deck, 
ind  bowed  his  head  eastward,  and  })raised  the  Maker  of  the 
iun : it  shone  on  his  white  turban  as  he  was  kneeling,”  and  gilt 
ip  his  bronzed  face,  and  sent  his  blue  shadow  over  the  glowing 
leek.  The  distances,  w'hich  had  been  gra}',  were  now  clothed 
11  purple  ; and  the  broad  stream  was  illuminated.  As  the  sun 
ose  higher,  the  morning  blush  faded  away  ; the  sky  was  cloud- 
iss  and  pale,  and  the  river  and  the  surrounding  landscape 
ere  dazzlingly  clear. 

Loolving  ahead  in  an  hour  or  two,  we  saw  the  Pyramids. 

ancy  my  sensations,  dear  M ; — two  big  ones  and  a little 

le : 

7 7 ! 

■ ■ ■ 

here  they  lav.  rosy  and  solemn  in  the  distance  — those  old, 


420 


EASTERi^  SKETCHES. 


majestical,  mystical,  familiar  edifices.  Several  of  us  tried  to 
be  impressed  ; but  breakfast  supervening,  a rush  was  made  at 
the  coffee  and  cold  pies,  and  the  sentiment  of  awe  was  lost  in 
the  scramble  for  victuals. 

Are  we  so  biases  of  the  world  that  the  greatest  marvels  in  it 
do  not  succeed  in  moving  us?  Have  society,  Pall  Mall  clubs, 
and  a habit  of  sneering,  so  withered  up  our  organs  of  veneration 
that  we  can  admire  no  more  ? My  sensation  with  regard  to  the 
P^u’amids  was,  that  I had  seen  them  before  : then  came  a feeling 
of  shame  that  the  view  of  them  should  awaken  no  respect. 

Then  I wanted  (naturall}")  to  see  whether  my  neighbors  were 
any  more  enthusiastic  than  myself — Trinit}^  College,  Oxford, 
was  busy  with  the  cold  ham  : Downing  Street  was  particularly 
attentive  to  a bunch  of  grapes : Fig-tree  Court  behaved  with  ■ 
decent  propriet}^ ; he  is  in  good  practice,  and  of  a Conservative  • 

turn  of  mind,  which  leads  him  to  respect  from  principle  les  f aits  \ 

accomplis ; perhaps  he  remembered  that  one  of  them  was  as  big 
as  Lincoln’s  Inn  Fields.  But,  the  truth  is,  nobod}’  was  seriously 
moved And  why  should  they,  because  of  an  exaggera- 

tion of  bricks  ever  so  enormous?  I confess,  for  my  part,  that 
the  Pyramids  are  very  big.  ! 

After  a voyage  of  about  thirty  hours,  the  steamer  brought  f 

up  at  the  (]uay  of  Boulak,  amidst  a small  fleet  of  dirty  comfort-  t 

less  Cangias,  in  which  cottons  and  merchandise  were  loading  i 

and  unloading,  and  a huge  noise  and  bustle  on  the  shore.  '' 

Numerous  villas,  i)arks,  and  country-houses,  had  begun  to 
decorate  the  C’airo  bank  of  the  stream  ere  this  : residences  of 
the  Ihxsha’s  nobles,  who  have  had  orders  to  take  their  pleasure  - 

here  and  beautify  the  precincts  of  the  capital ; tall  factory  * 

chimneys  also  rise  here  ; there  are  foundries  and  steam-engine  | 

manufactories.  These,  and  the  ideasure-houses,  stand  as  trim  I. 

as  soldiers  on  parade  ; contrasting  with  the  swarming,  slovenly,  ^ 
close,  tumble-down,  eastern  old  town,  that  forms  the  outport  of 
Cairo,  and  was  built  before  the  importation  of  Phiropean  taste  ; 
and  discipline. 

Here  we  alighted  upon  donkeys,  to  the  full  as  brisk  as  those  ^ 
of  Alexandria,  invaluable  to  timid  riders,  and  equal  to  any 
weight.  We  had  a Jerusalem  pony  race  into  Cairo  ; my  animal 
beating  all  the  rest  by  many  lengths.  The  entrance  to  the  , 
capitaf,  from  Boulak,  is  very  pleasant  and  picturesque  — over 
a fair  road,  and  the  wide-planted  plain  of  the  Ezbekieh  ; where  ! 
are  gardens,  canals,  fields,  and  avenues  of  trees,  and  where  the  . 
great  ones  of  the  town  come  and  take  their  pleasure.  We  saw  j 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


421 


many  barouches  driving  about  with  fat  Pashas  lolling  on  the 
cushions ; stately-looking  colonels  and  doctors  taking  their 
ride,  followed  by  their  orderlies  or  footmen  ; lines  of  people 
taking  [)ipcs  and  sherbet  in  the  collee-hoiises  ; and  one  of  the 
pleasantest  sights  of  all,  — a line  new  white  building  with 
lIoTEL  d’Orient  written  up  in  huge  French  characters,  and 
which,  indeed,  is  an  establishment  as  large  and  comfortable  as 
most  of  the  l)cst  inns  of  the  South  of  France.  As  a hundred 
Christian  pco[)le,  or  more,  come  from  England  and  IVom  India 
eveiy  fortnight,  this  inn  has  been  built  to  accommodate  a large 
proportion  of  them  ; and  twice  a month,  at  least,  its  sixt}' rooms 
are  full. 

The  gardens  from  the  windows  give  a very  pleasant  and 
animated  view  : the  hotel-gate  is  besieged  b}'  crews  of  donke}'- 
drivers  ; the  nol)le  stately  Arab  women,  with  tawny  skins  (of 
which  a simple  robe  of  iloating  blue  cotton  enables  3'ou  liberally 
to  see  the  color)  and  large  black  e}’cs,  come  to  the  well  hard  b}^ 
for  water : camels  are  perpetually  arriving  and  setting  down 
their  loads  : the  court  is  full  of  bustling  dragomans,  ayahs, 
and  children  from  India ; and  poor  old  venerable  he-nurses, 
with  gra^’  beards  and  crimson  turbans,  tending  little  white- 
faced  babies  that  have  seen  the  light  at  Dumdum  or  Futtyghur: 
a co[)per-colored  barber,  seated  on  his  hams,  is  shaving  a camel- 
driver  at  the  great  inn-gate.  The  bells  are  ringing  prodigiously^ ; 
and  Lieutenant  Waghorn  is  bouncing  in  and  out  of  the  court- 
yard full  of  business,  lie  onl_v  left  Lombay  yTSteixhiv  morning, 
was  seen  in  the  Red  Sea  on  Tuesdav,  is  engaged  to  dinner  this 
afternoon  in  the  Regent’s  Park,  and  (as  it  is  about  two  minutes 
since  I saw  nim  in  the  court-yard)  I make  no  doubt  he  is  by 
this  time  at  Alexandria  or  at  Malta,  say,  perhaps  at  both.  11 
en  est  capaoie.  If  any'  man  can  be  at  two  places  at  once  (which 
I don’t  believe  or  deny)  Waghorn  is  he. 

Six-o’clock  bell  rings,  Sixty  people  sit  down  to  a quasi 
French  banquet:  thirtv  Indian  ofllcers  in  moustaches  and  jack- 
ets ; ten  civilians  in  ditto  and  spectacles  ; ten  pale-faced  ladies 
with  ringlets,  to  whom  all  pay  prodigious  attention.  All  the 
pale  ladies  drink  pale  ale,  which,  perhaps,  accounts  for  it ; 
in  fact  the  Bombay  and  Suez  passengers  have  just  arrived, 
and  hence  this  crowding  and  l)ustling,  and  display'  of  militaiy 
jackets  and  moustaches,  and  ringlets  and  beauty.  The  win- 
dows are  open,  and  a rush  of  mosquitoes  from  the  lazbekieh 
waters,  attracted  by' the  wax-candles,  adds  greatly  to  the  excite- 
ment of  the  scene.  There  was  a little  tough  old  Major,  who 
persisted  in  flinging  oj)en  the  windows,  to  admit  these  volatile 


422 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


creatures,  with  a noble  disregard  to  their  sting  — and  the  pale 
ringlets  did  not  seem  to  heed  them  either,  though  the  dehcate 
shoulders  of  some  of  them  were  bare. 

All  the  meat,  ragouts,  fricandeaux,  and  roasts,  which  are 
served  round  at  dinner,  seem  to  me  to  be  of  the  same  meat : 
a black  uncertain  sort  of  viand  do  these  “ flesh-pots  of  Egypt” 
contain.  But  what  the  meat  is  no  one  knew  ; is  it  the  donkey? 
The  animal  is  more  plentiful  than  any  other  in  Cairo. 

After  dinner,  the  ladies  retiring,  some  of  us  take  a mix- 
ture of  hot  water,  sugar,  and  pale  French  brand}^  which  is 
said  to  be  deleterious,  but  is  by  no  means  unpalatable.  One 
of  the  Indians  offers  a bundle  of  Bengal  cheroots  ; and  we 
make  acquaintance  with  those  honest  bearded  white-jacketed 
Majors  and  military  Commanders,  finding  England  here  in  a 
French  hotel  kept  b}^  an  Italian,  at  the  cit}'  of  Grand  Cairo,  in 
Africa. 

On  retiring  to  bed  you  take  a towel  with  you  into  the  sacred 
interior,  behind  the  mosquito  curtains.  Then  3*0111*  dut}*  is, 
having  tucked  the  curtains  closel}*  around,  to  flap  and  bang 
violentl}*  with  this  towel,  right  and  left,  and  backwards  and 
forwards,  until  every  mosquito  shall  have  been  massacred  that 
may  have  taken  rehige  within  3*0111*  muslin  canopy. 

Do  what  you  will,  however,  one  of  them  alwa3*s  escapes  the 
murder ; and  as  soon  as  the  candle  is  out  the  miscreant  begins 
his  infernal  droning  and  truiiqicting ; descends  playfully  upon 
3*0111*  nose  and  face,  and  so  lightly  tliat  you  don’t  know  that  he 
touches  you.  But  that  for  a week  afterwards  you  bear  about 
marks  of  liis  ferocity,  you  might  take  the  invisible  little  being 
to  be  a creature  of  fancy  — a mere  singing  in  your  ears. 

d’liis,  as  an  account  of  Cairo,  dear  M , vou  will  probably 

be  disposed  to  consider  as  inconqilete  : the  fact  is,  I have  seen 
nothing  else  as  yet.  I have  peered  into  no  harems.  Tne 
magicians,  proved  to  be  humbugs,  have  been  bastinadoed  out 
lof  town.  The  dancing-girls,  those  loveh*  Alme,  of  wliorn  I 
had  lioped  to  be  able  to  give  a glowing  and  elegant,  though 
strictlv  moral,  dc'scrijition,  have  been  whipped  into  Upper 
Egypt,  and  as  you  are  saying  in  your  mind  ....  Well,  it 
a good  descri[)tion  of  Cairo  ; you  are  perfectly  right.  It 
is  England  in  Egypt.  I like  to  see  her  there  with  her  [ihick, 
enterprise,  manliness,  bitter  ale,  and  Harvey  sauce.  Wherever 
the3*  come  they  stav  and  prosper.  From  the  summit  of  yonder 
Pyramids  forty  centuries  mav  look  down  on  them  if  the3'  are 
minded  ; and  I sav,  those  venerable  daughters  of  time  ought 
to  be  better  pleased  by  the  examination,  than  b3*  regarding  the 


FROM  CORN  HILL  TO  CAIRO. 


423 

French  bayonets  and  General  Bonaparte,  Member  of  the  In- 
stitute, fifty  years  ago,  running  about  with  sabre  and  pigtail. 
AYonders  he  did,  to  be  sure,  and  then  ran  away,  leaving  Kleber, 
to  be  murdered,  in  tlie  lurch  — a few  hundred  yards  from  the 
s[)ot  where  these  discpiisitions  are  written.  But  what  are  his 
wonders  com[)ared  to  Waghorn?  Nap  massacred  the  Mame- 
lukes at  the  Pyi-amids : Wag  has  com|ucred  the  Pyramids 
themselves;  dragged  the  unwiehW  structures  a month  nearer 
England  than  they  were,  and  brought  the  countiy  along  with 
them.  All  the  trophies  and  ca[)tivcs  that  ever  weie  bi-ought  to 
Roman  triumph  were  not  so  enormous  and  wonderful  as  this. 
All  the  heads  that  Napoleon  ever  caused  to  be  struck  off  (as 
George  Cruikshank  says)  would  not  elevate  him  a monument 
as  big.  Be  ours  the  tro[)hies  of  })eace  ! O 1113^  countiy  ! O 
Waghorn  ! Ifce  tibi  erunt  artes.  A\Tien  1 go  to  the  Pyramids 
1 will  sacrifice  in  your  name,  and  })Our  out  libations  of  bitter  ale 
and  Harvey  sauce  in  your  honor. 

One  of  the  noblest  views  in  the  world  is  to  be  seen  from  the 
citadel,  which  we  ascended  to-da}'.  You  sec  the  city  stretching 
beneath  it,  with  a thousand  minarets  and  mosques,  — the  great 
river  curling  through  the  green  iffains,  studded  with  innumera- 
ble villages.  The  Pyramids  are  lieyond,  brilliantl}"  distinct ; 
and  the  lines  and  fortifications  of  the  height,  and  the  arsenal 
h'ing  below.  Gazing  down,  the  guide  does  not  fail  to  point 
out  the  famous  Mameluke  leap,  by  which  one  of  the  corps 
esca])ed  death,  at  the  time  that  his  Highness  the  Pasha  arranged 
the  general  massacre  of  the  bod}’. 

The  venerable  Patriarch’s  harem  is  close  b}",  where  he 
received,  with  much  distinction,  some  of  the  members  of  our 
party.  AVe  weie  allowed  to  pass  very  close  to  the  sacred  pre- 
cincts, and  saw  a comfortable  white  European  building,  ap- 
proached In’  ffights  of  steps,  and  flanked  by  prett\’  gardens. 
Police  and  law-courts  were  here  also,  as  I understood  ; but  it 
was  not  the  time  of  the  Egyptian  assizes.  It  would  have  been 
pleasant,  otherwise,  to  see  the  chief  cadi  in  his  hall  of  justice  ; 
and  painful,  though  instructive,  to  behold  the  immediate  appli- 
cation of  the  Inastinado. 

The  great  lion  of  the  place  is  a new  mosque  which  Mehemet 
Ali  is  constructing  A’eiy  leisurely.  It  is  built  of  alabaster  of  a 
fair  white,  with  a delicate  blushing  tinge  ; but  the  ornaments 
are  European — the  noble,  fantastic,  beautiful  Oriental  art  is 
forgotten.  The  old  mosques  of  the  city,  of  which  I entered 
two,  and  looked  at  many,  are  a thousand  times  more  beautiful. 
Their  variety  of  ornament  is  astonishing,  — ^ the  difference  in 


424 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


the  shapes  of  the  domes,  the  beautiful  fancies  and  caprices  in  the 
forms  of  the  minarets,  which  violate  the  rules  of  proportion  with 
the  most  happy,  daring  grace,  must  have  struck  every  architect 
who  has  seen  them.  As  you  go  through  the  streets,  these 
architectural  beauties  keep  the  eye  continual!}^  charmed : now 
it  is  a marble  fountain,  with  its  arabesque  and  carved  over- 
hanging roof,  which  3'ou  can  look  at  with  as  much  pleasure  as 
an  antique  gem,  so  neat  and  brilliant  is  the  execution  of  it ; 
then,  you  come  to  the  arched  entrance  to  a mosque,  which 
shoots  up  like — like  what?  — like  the  most  beautiful  pirouette 
by  Taglioni,  let  us  sa}\  This  arcliitecture  is  not  sublimely 
beautiful,  perfect  loveliness  and  calm,  like  that  which  was 
revealed  to  us  at  the  Parthenon  (and  in  comparison  of  which 
the  Pantheon  and  Colosseum  are  vulg;ar  and  coarse,  mere 
broad-shouldered  Titans  before  ambrosial  Jove)  ; but  these 
fantastic  spires,  and  cupolas,  and  galleries,  excite,  amuse,  tickh 
the  imagination,  so  to  speak,  and  perpetually  fascinate  the  e3’e. 
There  were  veiy  few  believers  in  the  famous  mosque  of  Sultan 
llassan  when  we  visited  it,  except  the  Moslemitish  beadle,  who 
was  on  the  look-out  for  backsheesh,  just  like  his  brother  officer 
in  an  English  cathedral : and  who,  making  us  put  on  straw 
slip[)ors,  so  as  not  to  pollute  the  sacred  pavement  of  the  place, 
conducted  us  through  it. 

It  is  stupendously  light  and  airy  ; the  best  specimens  ol 
Norman  art  that  I have  seen  (and  surelv  the  Crusaders  must 
have  carried  home  the  models  of  these  heathenish  temples  in 
their  eves)  do  not  exceed  its  noI)le  grace  and  simplicity.  The 
m3'stics  make  discoveries  at  home,  that  the  Gothic  architecture 
is  Catholicism  carved  in  stone  — (in  which  case,  and  if  archb 
tectural  beauty  is  a criterion  or  ex[)ression  of  religion,  what  a 
dismal  barbarous  creed  must  that  expressed  by  the  Bethesda 
meeting-house  and  Inde[)endent  chapels  be?) — if,  as  the\’ 
would  gi'avel>'  hint,  because  Gothic  architecture  is  beautiful, 
C'atholicism  is  therefore  loveh’  and  right,  — wln^,  Mahometan- 
ism must  have  been  right  and  loveh'  too  once.  Never  did  a 
c*reed  [)ossess  temples  more  elegant ; as  elegant  as  the  Cathedral 
at  Rouen,  or  the  Baptisteiy  at  Pisa. 

But  it  is  changed  now.  There  was  nobod}'  at  prayers  ; onl}^ 
the  official  beadles,  and  the  supernumerary  guides,  who  came 
for  backsheesh.  Faith  hath  degenerated.  According!}'  they 
can’t  build  these  mosques,  or  invent  these  perfect  forms,  any 
more.  Witness  the  tawdry  incompleteness  and  vulgarity  of  the 
Pasha’s  new  temple,  and  the  woful  failures  among  the  very  lat« 
edifices  in  Constantinople  ! 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


425 


However,  they  still  make  pilgrimages  to  Mecca  in  great 
force.  The  Mosqne  of  llassan  is  hard  l)y  the  green  plain  on 
which  the  Hay  encamps  before  it  sets  forth  annually  on  its 
pious  peregrination.  It  was  not  yet  its  time,  but  1 saw  in  the 
bazaars  that  redoubted  Dervish,  who  is  the  Master  of  the  Ilag 

— the  leader  of  every  procession,  accompanying  the  sacred 
camel ; and  a personage  almost  as  mnch  respected  as  Mr. 
O’Connell  in  Ireland. 

This  fellow  lives  by  alms  (I  mean  the  head  of  the  Hag). 
Winter  and  summer  he  wears  no  clothes  but  a thin  and  scanty 
white  shirt.  He  wields  a staff,  and  stalks  along  scowling  and 
barefoot.  His  immense  shock  of  black  hair  streams  behind 
him,  and  his  brown,  brawny  body  is  cni'led  over  with  black 
hair,  like  a savage  man.  This  saint  has  the  largest  harem  in 
the  town  ; he  is  said  to  be  enormously  rich  by  the  contribu- 
tions he  has  levied  ; and  is  so  adored  for  his  holiness  by  the 
infatuated  folk,  that  when  he  returns  from  the  Hag  (which  he 
does  on  horseback,  the  chief  Mollahs  going  out  to  meet  him 
and  escort  him  home  in  state  along  the  Ezbekieh  road,)  the 
people  fling  themselves  down  under  the  horse’s  feet,  eager  to 
be  trampled  u[)on  and  killed,  and  confident  of  heaven  if  the 
great  Hadji’s  horse  will  but  kick  them  into  it.  Was  it  my 
fault  if  I thought  of  Hadji  Daniel,  and  the  believers  in  him? 

There  was  no  Dervish  of  reiinte  on  the  plain  when  I passed ; 
only  one  poor,  wild  fellow,  who  was  dancing,  with  glaring  e}’es 
and  grizzled  beard,  rather  to  the  contempt  of  the  bj'-standers, 
as  I thought,  who  by  no  means  put  coppers  into  his  extended 
bowl.  On  this  poor  devil’s  head  there  was  a poorer  devil  still 

— a live  cock,  entirely  plucked,  but  ornamented  with  some  bits 
of  ragged  tape  and  scarlet  and  tinsel,  the  most  horribly  gro- 
tesque and  miserable  object  T ever  saw. 

A little  way  from  him,  there  was  a sort  of  play  going  on  — 
a clown  and  a knowing  one,  like  Widdicombe  and  the  clown 
with  us,  — the  buffoon  answering  wifh  blundering  responses, 
which  made  all  the  audience  shout  with  laughter ; l)ut  the  only 
joke  which  was  translated  to  me  would  make  j^on  do  anything 
but  laugh,  and  shall  therefore  never  be  revealed  bj'  these  lips. 
All  their  humor,  iny  dragoman  tells  me,  is  of  this  questionable 
sort;  and  a .young  Eg3q:>tian  gentleman,  son  of  a Pasha,  whom 
I subsequent!}'  met  at  Malta,  confirmed  the  statement,  and 
gave  a detail  of  the  practices  of  private  life  which  was  any- 
thing but  edifying.  The  great  aim  of  woman,  he  said,  in  the 
much-maligned  Orient,  is  to  administer  to  the  brutalit}"  of  her 
lord  ; her  merit  is  in  knowing  how  to  vary  the  beast’s  pleasures. 


426 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


He  could  give  us  no  idea,  lie  said,  of  the  wit  of  the  Eg}^ptian 
women,  and  their  skill  in  doable  entendre ; nor,  I presume,  did 
we  lose  much  by  our  ignorance.  What  I would  urge,  humbly, 
however,  is  this  — Do  not  let  us  be  led  away  by  German 
writers  and  aesthetics,  Semilassoisms,  Hahnhahnisms,  and  the 
like.  The  life  of  the  East  is  a life  of  brutes.  The  much- 
maligned  Orient,  I am  confident,  has  not  been  maligned  near 
enough  ; for  the  good  reason  that  none  of  us  can  tell  the 
amount  of  horrible  sensuality  practised  there. 

Beyond  the  jack-pudding  rascal  and  his  audience,  there  was 
on  the  green  a spot,  on  which  was  pointed  out  to  me  a mark, 
as  of  blood.  That  morning  the  blood  had  spouted  from  the 
neck  of  an  Arnaoot  soldier,  who  had  been  executed  for  murder. 
These  Arnaoots  are  tlie  curse  and  terror  of  the  citizens.  Their 
camps  are  without  the  city  ; but  they  are  alwa3’s  brawling, 
or  drunken,  or  murdering  within,  in  spite  of  the  rigid  law 
which  is  ap[)lied  to  them,  and  which  brings  one  or  more  of  the 
scoundrels  to  death  almost  every  week. 

Some  of  our  party  had  seen  this  fcDow  borne  by  the  hotel 
the  da}’  before,  in  tlie  midst  of  a crowd  of  soldiers  who  had 
fip[)relicnded  him.  The  man  was  still  formidable  to  his  score 
of  captors  ; his  clothes  had  been  torn  off;  his  limbs  were  bound 
with  cords  ; but  he  was  struggling  franticall}'  to  get  free  ; and 
ni}’  informant  descril)ed  the  figure  and  appearance  of  the  naked, 
bound,  writhing  savage,  as  (piite  a model  of  beaut3^ 

Walking  in  the  street,  this  fellow  had  just  before  been  struck 
by  the  looks  of  a woman  who  was  passing,  and  laid  hands  on 
her.  She  ran  away,  and  he  i)iirsued  her.  She  ran  into  the 
police-barrack,  which  Avas  luckily  hard  b}’ ; but  the  Arnaoot 
was  nothing  daunted,  and  followed  into  the  midst  of  the  police. 
One  of  tluun  tried  to  sto[)  him.  The  Arnaoot  pulled  out  a 
pistol,  and  shot  the  policeman  dead,  lie  cut  down  three  or 
four  more  before  he  was  secured.  He  knew  his  inevitable  end 
must  l)c  death  : that  he  could  not  seize  upon  the  Avoman  : that 
he  could  not  ho[)e  to  resist  half  a regiment  of  armed  soldiers  : 
vet  his  instinct  of  lust  and  murder  Avas  too  strong;  and  so  he 
iiad  his  head  taken  olf  (luite  calmly  this  morning,  many  of  his 
comrades  attending  their  brother’s  last  moments.  He  cared 
not  the  least  al)Outdviug;  and  knelt  doAvn  and  had  his  head 
off  as  coollv  as  if  he  Avere  looking  on  at  the  same  ceremoii}^ 
performed  on  another. 

When  the  head  Avas  off,  and  the  blood  Avas  spouting  on  the 
ground,  a married  Avoman,  Avho  had  no  children,  came  IbrAvard 
vei’}'  eagerl}’  out  of  the  croAvd,  to  smear  herself  Avith  it,  — - the 


FROM  COHNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


427 


application  of  criminals’  blood  being  considered  a veiy  favor- 
able medicine  for  women  alllicted  with  barrenness, — so  she 
indulged  in  this  remedy. 

But  one  of  the  Arnaoots  standing  near  said,  “ What,  you 
like  blood,  do  you?”  (or  words  to  that  elfect).  “Let’s  see 
liow  3^ours  mixes  with  my  comrade’s.”  And  thereupon,  taking 
out  a pistol,  he  shot  tlie  woman  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  and 
the  guards  who  were  attending  the  execution  ; was  seized  of 
course  by  the  latter;  and  no  doubt  to-morrow  morning  will 
have  //is  head  off  too.  It  would  be  a good  chapter  to  write  — 
the  Death  of  the  Arnaoot  — but  1 shan’t  go.  Seeing  one  man 
hanged  is  (piite  enough  in  the  course  of  a life.  J’y  ai  e2e,  as 
the  Frenchman  said  of  hunting. 

These  Arnaoots  are  the  terror  of  the  town.  They  seized 
hold  of  an  FInglishman  the  other  day,  and  were  very  nearly 
pistolling  him.  Last  week  one  of  them  murdered  a shop- 
keeper at  Boulak,  who  rel’used  to  sell  him  a watermelon  at  a 
price  which  he,  the  soldier,  fixed  u[)on  it.  So,  for  the  matter 
of  thfee-half[)euce,  he  killed  the  sho’pkeeper ; and  had  his  own 
rascally  head  cho[)ped  off,  universally  regretted  by  his  friends. 
Why,  I wonder,  does  not  his  Highness  the  Pasha  invite  the 
Arnaoots  to  a dcjeime  at  the  Citadel,  as  he  did  the  Mamelukes, 
and  serve  them  up  the  same  sort  of  breakfast?  The  walls 
are  considerably  heightened  since  Emin  Bey  and  his  horse 
leapt  them,  and  it  is  i)robable  that  not  one  of  them  would 
escape. 

This  sort  of  pistol  practice  is  common  enough  here,  it  would 
appear ; and  not  among  the  Arnaoots  mereh',  but  the  higher 
orders.  Thus,  a short  time  since,  one  of  his  Highness’s  grand- 
sons, whom  I shall  call  Bluebeard  Pasha  (lest  a revelation  of 
the  name  of  the  said  Pasha  might  interrupt  our  good  relations 
with  his  country)  — one  of  the  young  Pashas  being  backward 
rather  in  his  education,  and  anxious  to  learn  mathematics,  and 
the  elegant  deportment  of  civilized  life,  sent  to  England  for  a 
tutor.  I have  heard  he  was  a Cambridge  man,  and  had  learned 
both  algebra  and  politeness  under  the  Reverend  Doctor  Whizzle, 
of College. 

One  day  when  Mr.  MacAVhirter,  B.A.,  was  walking  in 
Shoubra  gardens,  with  his  Highness  the  3’oung  Bluebeard 
Pasha,  inducting  him  into  the  usages  of  polished  society,  and 
favoring  him  with  reminiscences  of  Trumpington,  there  came 
up  a poor  fellah,  vdio  flung  himself  at  the  feet  of  young  Blue- 
beard, and  calling  for  justice  in  a loud  and  pathetic  voice,  and 
holding  out  a petition,  besought  his  Highness  to  cast  a gracious 


428  EASTERN  SKETCHES. 

ejo  upon  the  same,  and  see  that  his  slave  had  justiee  done 
him. 

Bluebeard  Pasha  was  so  deeply  engaged  and  interested  by 
his  respected  tutor’s  conversation,  that  he  told  the  poor  fellah 
to  go  to  the  deuce,  and  resumed  the  discourse  which  his  ill- 
timed  outciy  for  justice  had  interrupted.  But  the  unlucky 
wight  of  a fellah  was  pushed  by  his  evil  destiu}’,  and  thought 
he  would  make  3"et  another  application.  So  he  took  a short 
cut  down  one  of  the  garden  lanes,  and  as  the  Prince  and  the 
Reverend  Mr.  MacWhirter,  his  tutor,  came  along  once  more 
engaged  in  pleasant  disquisition,  behold  the  fellah  was  once 
more  in  their  way,  kneeling  at  the  august  Bluebeard’s  feet, 
3’elling  out  for  justice  as  before,  and  thrusting  his  petition  into 
the  ro}'al  face. 

When  the  Prince’s  conversation  was  thus  interrupted  a 
second  time,  his  ro^^al  patience  and  clemenc}"  were  at  an  end. 
“ Man,”  said  he,  “ once  before  I bade  thee  not  to  pester  me 
with  th}’  clamor,  and  lo ! you  have  disobeyed  me,  — take  the 
consequences  of  disobedience  to  a Prince,  and  thy  blood  be 
ii[)on  thine  own  head.”  So  sa3ung,  he  drew  out  a pistol  and 
blew  out  the  brains  of  that  fellah,  so  that  he  never  bawled  out 
for  justice  aiy*  more. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  MacWhirter  was  astonished  at  this  sud- 
den mode  of  proceeding  : “Gracious  Prince,”  said  he,  “we  do 
)U)t  shoot  an  undergraduate  at  Cambridge  even  for  walking  over 
a college  grass-plot.  — Let  me  suggest  to  3'our  Royal  Highness 
that  this  method  of  ridding  3’ourself  of  a poor  devil’s  importuni- 
ties is  such  as  we  should  consider  abrupt  and  almost  cruel  in 
Europe.  Let  me  beg  you  to  moderate  your  ro3’al  impetuosit3" 
for  the  future  ; and,  as  your  Highness’s  tutor,  entreat  3^11  to  be 
a little  less  prodigal  of  your  powder  and  shot.” 

“ O Mollah  ! ” said  his  Highness,  here  interrupting  his  gov- 
ernor’s affectionate  appeal,  — “ 3’ou  are  good  to  talk  about 
((Trumpington  and  the  Pons  Asinorum,  but  if  you  interfere  with 
■ the  course  of  justice  in  aii3’  way,  or  prevent  me  from  shooting 
an3’  dog  of  an  Arab  who  snarls  at  mv  heels,  I have  another  pis- 
tol; and,  1)3'  the  beard  of  the  Prophet!  a bullet  for  you  too.” 
So  sa3'ing  he  pulled  out  the  weapon,  with  such  a terrific  and 
significant  glance  at  the  Reverend  Mr.  MacWhirter,  that  that 
gentleman  wished  himself  b/ick  in  his  Combination  Room  again  ; 
and  is  by  this  time,  let  us  hoi)e,  safely  housed  there. 

Another  fixeetious  anecdote,  the  last  of  those  I had  from 
a well-informed  gentleman  residing  at  Cairo,  whose  name  (as 
many  copies  of  this  book  that  is  to  be  will  be  in  the  circulating 


FROM  COENIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


429 


libraries  there)  I cannot,  for  obvious  reasons,  mention.  The 
1‘evcimes  of  the  country  come  into  the  august  treasury  through 
the  means  of  farmers,  to  whom  the  districts  are  let  out,  and  who 
are  personally  answerable  for  their  quota  of  the  taxation.  This 
})ractice  involves  an  intoh'rablc  deal  of  tyrann}’  and  extortion 
on  the  ])art  of  those  engaged  to  levy  the  taxes,  and  creates  a 
corres[)onding  diqdicity  among  the  fellahs,  who  are  not  only 
wretchedly  poor  among  themselves,  but  whose  olqcct  is  to  appear 
still  more  i)oor,  and  guard  their  money  from  their  rapacious 
overseers.  Tlius  the  Orient  is  much  maligned  ; but  eveiybody 
cheats  there  : that  is  a melanchol}^  fact.  The  Pasha  robs  and 
cheats  the  merchants  ; knows  that  the  overseer  robs  him,  and 
])idcs  his  time,  until  he  makes  him  disgorge  b}'  the  application 
of  the  tremendous  bastinado ; the  overseer  robs  and  squeezes 
the  laborer ; and  the  [)Overty-stricken  devil  cheats  and  robs 
in  return  ; and  so  the  government  moves  in  a happy  cycle  of 
roguery. 

Deputations  from  the  fellahs  and  peasants  come  perpetually 
before  the  august  presence,  to  complain  of  the  cruelt}*  and  exac- 
tions of  the  chiefs  set  over  them  : but,  as  it  is  known  that  the 
Arab  never  will  pay  without  the  bastinado,  their  complaints, 
for  the  most  part,  meet  with  but  little  attention.  His  High- 
ness’s treasury  must  be  tilled,  and  his  otllcers  supported  in  their 
authority. 

However,  there  was  one  village,  of  which  the  complaints  were 
so  pathetic,  and  the  inhabitants  so  supremely  wretched,  that  the 
royal  indignation  was  moved  at  their  story,  and  the  chief  of  the 
village,  Skinhint  Beg,  was  called  to  give  an  account  of  himself 
at  Cairo. 

When  he  came  before  the  presence,  Mehemet  Ali  reproached 
him  with  his  horrible  crueltv  and  exactions  ; asked  him  how  he 
dared  to  treat  his  faithful  and  beloved  subjects  in  this  wa}q  and 
threatened  him  with  disgrace,  and  the  utter  confiscation  of  his 
property,  for  thus  having  reduced  a district  to  ruin. 

“ A"our  Highness  savs  I have  reduced  these  fellahs  to  ruin,” 
said  Skinflint  Beg;  “what  is  the  best  way  to  confound  my 
enemies,  and  to  show  you  the  falsehood  of  their  accusations 
that  I have  ruined  them  ? — To  bring  more  money  from  them. 
If  I bring  3^011  five  hundred  purses  from  my  village,  wall  3’ou 
acknowledge  that  my  people  are  not  ruined  3’et?” 

The  heart  of  the  Pasha  wms  touched  : “1  will  have  no  more 
bastinadoing,  O Skinflint  Beg ; you  have  tortured  these  poor 
people  so  much,  and  have  got  so  little  from  them,  that  mj^  royal 


430  EASTERN  SKETCHES. 

heart  relents  for  the  present,  and  I will  have  them  suffer  no 
farther.” 

“ Gwe  me  free  leave  — give  me  your  Highness’s  gracious 
pardon,  and  I will  bring  the  five  hundred  purses  as  surely  as  m3" 
name  is  Skinflint  Beg.  I demand  onl}"  the  time  to  go  home, 
the  time  to  return,  and  a few  daj’S  to  stay,  and  I will  come 
l)ack  as  honestl3"  as  Regulus  Pasha  did  to  the  Carthaginians,  — 
I will  come  back  and  make  m}^  face  white  before  3"our  High- 
ness.” 

Skinflint  Beg’s  prayer  for  a reprieve  was  granted,  and  he 
returned  to  his  village,  where  he  forthwith  called  the  elders 
together.  “ O friends,”  he  said,  “complaints  of  our  poverty 
and  miseiy  have  reached  the  1’03'al  throne,  and  the  benevolent 
heart  of  the  sovereign  has  been  melted  b}^  the  words  that  have 
been  poured  into  his  ears.  ‘ My  heart  yearns  towards  m\’  peo- 
ple of  El  Muddee,’  he  sa}"s ; ‘ I have  thought  how  to  relieve 
their  miseries.  Near  them  lies  the  fruitful  land  of  El  Guanee. 
It  is  rich  in  maize  and  cotton,  in  sesame  and  barle}" ; it  is  worth 
a thousand  purses  ; but  I will  let  it  to  my'  children  for  seven 
hundred,  and  I will  give  over  the  rest  of  the  profit  to  them,  as 
an  alleviation  for  their  affliction.’  ” 

The  elders  of  El  Muddee  knew  the  great  value  and  fertility 
of  the  lands  of  Guanee,  but  they  doubted  the  sincerity'  of  their 
governor,  who,  however,  dispelled  their  fears,  and  adroitly 
quickened  their  eagerness  to  close  with  the  proffered  bargain. 
“ I will  my'self  advance  two  hundred  and  fifty'  purses,”  he  said, 
“do  y^ou  take  counsel  among  yourselves,  and  subscribe  the 
other  five  hundred ; and  when  the  sum  is  ready',  a deputation 
of  you  shall  carry  it  to  Cairo,  and  I will  come  with  my^  share ; 
and  we  will  lay  the  whole  at  the  feet  of  his  Highness.”  80  the 
gray-bearded  ones  of  the  village  advised  with  one  another ; 
and  those  who  had  been  inaccessible  to  bastinadoes,  somehow 
found  money'  at  the  calling  of  interest ; and  the  Sheikh,  and 
they,  and  the  five  hundred  purses,  set  off  on  the  road  to  the 
capital. 

When  they  arrived.  Skinflint  Beg  and  the  elders  of  El  Mud- 
dee sought  admission  to  the  royal  throne,  and  there  laid  down 
their  purses.  “ Here  is  y^our  humble  servant’s  contribution,” 
said  Skinflint,  producing  his  share;  “ and  here  is  the  offering 
of  y'our  loyal  village  of  El  Muddee.  Did  I not  before  say  that 
enemies  and  deceivers  had  maligned  me  before  the  august  pres- 
ence, pretending  that  not  a piastre  was  left  in  my  village,  and 
that  my' extortion  had  entirely' denuded  tlie  peasantry'?  See! 
here  is  proof  that  there  is  nlcntv  of  money'  still  in  El  Muddee : 


FROM  CORNllILL  TO  CAIRO.  431 

in  twelve  Lours  the  elders  have  subscribed  five  hundred  purses, 
and  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  their  lord.” 

Instead  of  the  bastinado,  Skinfiiiit  Reg  was  instantly  rewarded 
with  the  royal  favor,  and  the  former  mark  of  attention  was  be- 
stowed upon  the  fellahs  who  had  maligned  him  ; Skinflint  Be^ 
was  promoted  to  the  rank  of  Skinflint  Bey  ; and  his  manner  ol 
extracting  money  from  his  people  may  be  studied  with  admira- 
tion in  a part  of  the  United  Kingdom.* 

At  the  time  of  the  Syrian  quarrel,  and  when,  apprehending 
some  general  rupture  with  England,  the  Pasha  wished  to  raise 
the  spirit  of  the  fellahs,  and  relever  la  morale  nationale^  he 
actually  made  one  of  the  astonished  Arabs  a colonel.  He  de- 
graded him  three  days  after  peace  was  concluded.  The  young 
Egyptian  colonel,  who  told  me  this,  laughed  and  enjoyed  the 
joke  with  the  utmost  gusto.  “Is  it  not  a shame,”  he  said,  “ to 
make  me  a colonel  at  three-and-twenty  ; I,  who  have  no  par- 
ticular merit,  and  havd*  never  seen  any  service  ? ” Death  has 
since  stopped  the  modest  and  good-natured  young  fellow’s 

further  promotion.  The  death  of Bey  was  announced  in 

the  French  papers  a few  weeks  back. 

My  above  kind-hearted  and  agreeable  young  informant  used 
to  discourse,  in  our  evenings  in  the  Lazaretto  at  Malta,  very 
eloquentl}^  about  the  beauty  of  his  wife,  whom  he  had  left 
behind  him  at  Cairo  — her  brown  hair,  her  brilliant  complexion, 
and  her  blue  eyes.  It  is  this  Circassian  blood,  I suppose,  to 
which  the  Turkish  aristocracy  that  governs  Egypt  must  be  in- 
debted for  the  fairness  of  their  skin.  Ibrahim  Pasha,  riding  by 
in  his  barouche,  looked  like  a bluff,  joll3'-faced  English  dragoon 
officer,  with  a gray  moustache  and  red  cheeks,  such  as  you 
might  see  on  a field-day  at  Maidstone.  All  the  numerous 
ollicials  riding  through  the  town  were  quite  as  fair  as  Europe- 
ans. We  made  acquaintance  with  one  dignitary,  a very  jovial 
and  fat  Pasha,  the  proprietor  of  the  inn,  I believe,  who  was 
continnall}^  lounging  about  the  Ezbekieli  garden,  and  who,  but 
for  a slight  Jewish  cast  of  countenance,  might  have  passed  any 
day  for  a Frenchman.  The  ladies  whom  we  saw  were  equally 
fair ; that  is,  the  very  slight  particles  of  the  persons  of  ladies 
which  our  lucky  eyes  were  permitted  to  gaze  on.  These  lovel}' 
creatures  go  through  the  town  by  parties  of  three  or  four, 
mounted  on  donkeys,  and  attended  by  slaves  holding  on  at  the 
crupper,  to  receive  the  lovely  riders  lest  the}"  should  fall,  and 
ehouting  out  shrill  cries  of  “ Schmaalek,”  “ Ameenek  ” (or  how^ 

* At  Derr^^nanc  Beg,  for  instance, 


432 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


ever  else  these  words  ma}-  be  pronounced),  and  flogging  ofl?*the 
people  right  and  left  with  the  buffalo-thong.  But  the  dear 
creatures  are  even  more  closely  disguised  than  at  Constanti- 
nople : their  bodies  are  enveloped  with  a large  black  silk  hood, 
like  a cab-head  ; the  fashion  seemed  to  be  to  spread  their  arms 
out,  and  give  this  covering  all  the  amplitude  of  which  it  was 
capable,  as  they  leered  and  ogled  3’ou  from  under  their  black 
masks  with  their  big  rolling  eyes. 

Eveiybod}"  has  big  rolling  e^^es  here  (unless,  to  be  sure,  they 
lose  one  of  ophthalmia) . The  Arab  women  are  some  of  the 
noblest  figures  I have  ever  seen.  The  habit  of  carrying  jars  on 
the  head  always  gives  the  figure  grace  and  motion ; and  the 
dress  the  women  wear  certainly  displa^^s  it  to  full  advantage. 
I have  brought  a complete  one  home  with  me,  at  the  service  of 
aii}^  lad3'  for  a masqued  ball.  It  consists  of  a coarse  blue  dress 
of  calico,  opened  in  front,  and  fastened  with  a horn  button. 
Three  }’ards  of  blue  stuff  for  a veil ; on  the  top  of  the  veil  a jar 
to  be  balanced  on  the  head  ; and  a little  black  strip  of  silk  to 
fall  over  the  nose,  and  leave  the  beautiful  eyes  full  liberty  to 
roll  and  roam.  But  such  a costume,  not  aided  b}^  any  stag’s 
or  an}"  other  article  of  dress  whatever,  can  be  worn  onlj"  b}"  a 
very  good  figure.  I suspect  it  won’t  be  borrowed  for  many 
balls  next  season. 

The  men,  a tall,  handsome,  noble  race,  are  treated  like  dogs. 
I shall  never  forget  riding  through  the  crowded  bazaars,  my 
inter[)reter,  or  laquais-de-place,  ahead  of  me  to  clear  the  way  — 
when  he  took  his  whip  and  struck  it  over  the  shoulders  of  a man 
wfiio  could  not  or  would  not  make  way ! 

The  man  turned  round  — an  old,  venerable,  handsome  face, 
with  awfully  sad  eyes,  and  a beard  long  and  quite  gray.  He 
did  not  make  the  least  complaint,  but  slunk  out  of  the  way, 
piteously  shaking  his  shoulder.  The  sight  of  that  indignity 
gave  me  a sickening  feeling  of  disgust.  1 shouted  out  to  the 
cursed  lackey  to  hold  his  hand,  and  forbade  him  ever  in  my 
presence  to  strike  old  or  young  more  ; but  everj  body  is  doing 
it.  The  whip  is  in  everybody’s  hands  : the  Pasha’s  running 
footman,  as  he  goes  bustling  through  the  bazaar ; the  doctor’s 
attendant,  as  he  soberly  threads  the  crowd  on  his  mare ; the 
negro  slave,  who  is  riding  by  himself,  the  most  insolent  of  all, 
strikes  and  slashes  about  without  mercy,  and  you  never  hear  a 
single  complaint. 

How  to  describe  the  beauty  of  the  streets  to  }"ou  ! — the  fan- 
tastic splendor ; the  variety  of  the  houses,  and  archways,  and 
hanging  roofs,  and  balconies,  and  porches ; the  delightful  acci- 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


433 


dents  of  light  and  shade  which  chequer  them ; the  noise,  the 
bustle,  the  brillianc}^  of  the  crowd  ; the  interminable  vast  bazaars 
with  their  barbaric  splendor  ! There  is  a fortune  to  be  made  for 
painters  in  Cairo,  and  materials  for  a whole  Academ}^  of  them. 
I never  saw  such  a variet^^  of  architecture,  of  life,  of  pictu- 
resqueness, of  brilliant  color,  and  light  and  shade.  There  is  a 
picture  in  every  street,  and  at  every  bazaar  stall.  Some  of 
Ihese  our  celelu’ated  water-color  painter,  Mr.  Lewis,  has  pro- 
duced with  admirable  truth  and  exceeding  minuteness  and 
beauty;  but  there  is  room  for  a hundred  to  follow  him;  and 
should  any  artist  (by  some  rare  occurrence)  read  this,  who  has 
leisure,  and  wants  to  break  new  ground,  let  him  take  heart, 
and  try  a winter  in  Cairo,  where  there  is  the  finest  climate 
and  the  best  subjects  for  his  pencil. 

A series  of  studies  of  negroes  alone  would  form  a picture- 
book,  delightfully  grotesque.  Mounting  my  donkey  to-da}q  I 
took  a ride  to  the  desolate,  noble  old  buildings  outside  the  city, 
known  as  the  Toml)s  of  the  Caliphs.  Flveiy  one  of  these  edi- 
fices, with  their  domes,  and  courts,  and  minarets,  is  strange  and 
beautiful.  In  one  of  them  there  was  an  encampment  of  negro 
slaves  newly  arrived  : some  scores  of  them  were  huddled  against 
the  sunny  wall ; two  or  three  of  their  masters  lounged  about  the 
court,  or  la}"  smoking  upon  carpets.  There  was  one  of  these 
fellows,  a straight-nosed,  ebony-faced  Abyssinian,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  such  sinister  good-humor  in  his  handsome  face  as 
w"ould  form  a perfect  type  of  villany.  He  sat  leering  at  me, 
over  his  carpet,  as  I endeavored  to  get  a sketch  of  that  incar- 
nate rascality.  “ Give  me  some  money,”  said  the  fellow.  “ I 
know  what  you  are  about.  You  will  sell  my  picture  for  money 
when  you  get  back  to  Europe  ; let  me  have  some  of  it  now  ! ” 
But  the  very  rude  and  humble  designer  was  quite  unequal  to  de- 
pict such  a consummation  and  perfection  of  roguery  ; so  flung  him 
a cigar,  wdiich  he  began  to  smoke,  grinning  at  the  giver.  I re- 
quested the  interpreter  to  inform  him,  by  way  of  assurance  of 
my  disinterestedness,  that  his  face  was  a great  deal  too  ugly  to 
be  popular  in  Europe,  and  that  was  the  particular  reason  why  I 
had  selected  it. 

Then  one  of  his  companions  got  up  and  showed  us  his  black 
cattle.  The  male  slaves  were  chiefly  lads,  and  the  women 
young,  well  formed,  and  abominably  hideous.  The  dealer 
pulled  her  blanket  off  one  of  them  and  bade  her  stand  up,  which 
she  did  with  a great  deal  of  shuddering  modesty.  She  was  coal 
black,  her  lips  were  the  size  of  sausages,  her  eyes  large  and 
good-humored ; the  hair  or  wool  on  this  young  person’s  head 

^^8 


434 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


was  curled  and  greased  into  a thousand  filth}^  little  ringlets. 
She  was  evidently  the  beauty  of  the  flock. 

The}'  are  not  unhapp}' ; tlie}^  look  to  being  bought,  as  many 
a spinster  looks  to  an  establishment  in  England  ; once  in  a 
family  they  are  kindly  treated  and  well  clothed,  and  fatted,  and 
are  the  merriest  people  of  the  whole  community.  These  were 
of  a much  more  savage  sort  than  the  slaves  I had  seen  in  the 
iiori'ible  market  at  Constantinople,  where  I recollect  a young 
creature  — whilst  I was  looking  at  her  and  forming  pathetic 
conjectures  regarding  her  fate  — smiling  very  good-humoredl}^, 
and  bidding  the  interpreter  ask  me  to  buy  her  for  twenty 
pounds. 

From  these  Tombs  of  the  Caliphs  the  Desert  is  before  }'ou. 
It  comes  up  to  the  walls  of  the  city,  and  stops  at  some  gardens 
which  spring  up  all  of  a sudden  at  its  edge.  You  can  see  the 
first  vStation-house  on  the  Suez  Road  ; and  so  from  distance 
point  to  point,  could  ride  thither  alone  without  a guide. 

Asinus  trotted  gallantly  into  this  desert  for  the  space  of  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  There  we  were  (taking  care  to  keep  our 
backs  to  the  city  walls) , in  the  real  actual  desert : mounds  upon 
mounds  of  sand,  stretching  awa}'  as  far  as  the  e}'e  can  see,  until 
the  dreary  prospect  fades  away  in  the  yellow  horizon  ! I had 
formed  a finer  idea  of  it  out  of  “Eothen.”  Perhaps  in  a si- 
moom it  may  look  more  awful.  The  only  adventure  that  befell 
in  this  romantic  place  was  that  asinus’ s legs  went  deep  into  a 
hole  : whereupon  his  rider  went  over  his  head,  and  bit  the  sand, 
and  measured  his  length  there  ; and  upon  this  hint  rose  up,  and 
rode  home  again.  No  doubt  one  should  have  gone  out  for  a 
couple  of  days’  march  — as  it  was,  the  desert  did  not  seem  to 
me  sublime,  only  uncomfortable. 

Very  soon  after  this  perilous  adventure  the  sun  likewise 
dipped  into  the  sand  (but  not  to  rise  therefrom  so  quickly  as  I 
had  done)  ; and  1 saw  this  daily  phenomenon  of  sunset  with 
pleasure,  for  I was  engaged  at  that  hour  to  dine  with  our  old 

friend  J , who  has  established  himself  here  in  the  most 

complete  Oriental  fashion. 

You  remember  J , and  what  a dandy  he  was,  the  fault- 

lessness of  his  boots  and  cravats',  the  brilliancy  of  his  waistcoats 
and  kid-gloves ; we  have  seen  his  splendor  in  Regent  Street, 
in  the  Tuileries,  or  on  the  Toledo.  My  first  object  on  arriving 
here  was  to  find  out  his  house,  which  he  has  taken  far  awa}" 
from  the  haunts  of  European  civilization,  in  the  Arab  quarter. 
It  is  situated  in  a cool,  shady,  narrow  alley ; so  narrow,  that  it 
was  with  great  difficulty  — his  Highness  Ibrahim  Pasha  happen- 


FllOM  COIIXIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


435 


ing  to  pass  at  the  same  moment  — that  1113^  little  procession  of 
two  donke3^s,  mounted  by  self  and  valet-de-place,  with  the  two 
donkey-boys  our  attendants,  could  range  ourselves  along  the 
wall,  and  leave  room  for  the  august  cavalcade.  II is  Highness 
having  rushed  on  (with  an  affable  and  good-humored  salute  to 
our  imposing  party),  we  made  J.’s  quarters;  and  in  the  first 
place,  entered  a broad  covered  court  or  porch,  where  a swarth}’, 
tawny  attendant,  dressed  in  blue,  with  white  turban,  keeps  a 
perpetual  watch.  Servants  in  the  East  lie  about  all  the  doors, 
it  appears  ; and  you  clap  your  hands,  as  the}'  do  in  the  dear  old 
Arabian  Nights,”  to  summon  tliem. 

This  servant  disappeared  through  a narrow  wicket,  which  he 
closed  after  him  ; and  w'ent  into  the  inner  chambers  to  ask  if 
his  lord  would  receive  us.  He  came  back  presently,  and  rising 
up  from  my  donke}',  I confided  him  to  his  attendant,  (lads  more 
sharp,  arch,  and  wicked  than  tliese  donkey-boys  don’t  walk  the 
pave  of  Paris  or  London,)  and  passed  the  mysterious  outer 
door. 

First  we  came  into  a broad  open  court,  with  a covered 
galleiy  running  along  one  side  of  it.  A camel  was  reclining  on 
the  grass  there  ; near  him  \vas  a gazelle,  to  glad  J.  with  his 
dark  blue  eye  ; and  a numerous  brood  of  hens  and  chickens, 
who  furnish  his  liberal  table.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  cov- 
ered gallery  rose  up  the  walls  of  his  long,  queer,  man}- win- 
dowed, many-galleried  house.  There  were  wooden  lattices  to 
those  arched  windows,  through  the  diamonds  of  one  of  which  I 
saw  two  of  the  most  beautiful,  enormous,  ogling,  black  eyes  in 
the  world,  looking  down  upon  the  interesting  stranger.  Pigeons 
were  flapping,  and  hopping,  and  fluttering,  and  cooing  about. 
Happy  pigeons,  you  are,  no  doubt,  fed  with  ci’umbs  from  the 
henne-tipped  fingers  of  Zuleika  ! All  this  court,  cheerful  in  the 
sunshine,  cheerful  with  the  astonishing  brilliancy  of  the  eyes 
peering  out  from  the  lattice  bars,  was  as  mouldy,  ancient,  and 
ruinous  — as  any  gentleman’s  house  in  Ireland,  let  us  say.  The 
paint  was  peeling  off  the  rickety  old  carved  galleries  ; the  ara- 
besques over  the  windows  were  cliipped  and  worn ; — the 
ancientness  of  the  place  rendered  it  doubly  picturesque.  I 
have  detained  you  a long  time  in  the  outer  court.  Why  the 
deuce  was  Zuleika  there,  with  the  beautiful  black  eyes ! 

Hence  we  passed  into  a large  apartment,  where  there  was  a 
fountain  ; and  another  domestic  made  his  appearance,  taking 
me  in  charge,  and  relieving  the  tawny  porter  of  the  gate.  This 
fellow  was  clad  in  blue  too,  with  a red  sash  and  a gray  beard. 
He  conducted  me  into  a great  hall,  where  there  was  a great, 


436 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


large  Saracenic  oriel  window.  He  seated  me  on  a divan : and 
stalking  off,  for  a moment,  returned  with  a long  pipe  and  a 
brass  chafing-dish : he  blew  the  coal  for  the  pipe,  which  he  mo- 
tioned me  to  smoke,  and  left  me  there  with  a respectful  bow. 
This  dela}',  this  m^'sterj  of  servants,  that  outer  court  with  the 
camels,  gazelles,  and  other  beautiful-e3'ed  things,  affected  me 
[)rodigiously  all  the  time  he  was  staying  away  ; and  while  I was 
examining  the  strange  apartment  and  its  contents,  m^^  respect 
and  awe  for  the  owner  increased  vastU\ 

As  yon  will  be  glad  to  know  how  an  Oriental  nobleman 
(such  as  J.  undoubtedly  is)  is  lodged  and  garnished,  let  me  de- 
scribe the  contents  of  this  hall  of  audience.  It  is  about  forty 
feet  long,  and  eighteen  or  twenty  high.  All  the  ceiling  is 
carved,  gilt,  painted  and  embroidered  with  arabesques,  and 
choice  sentences  of  Eastern  writing.  Some  Mameluke  Aga,  or 
Bey,  whom  Mehemet  Ali  invited  to  breakfast  and  massacred, 
was  the  proprietor  of  this  mansion  once  : it  has  grown  dingier, 
but,  perhaps,  handsomer,  since  his  time.  Opposite  the  divan 
is  a great  bay-window,  with  a divan  likewise  round  the  niche. 
It  looks  out  upon  a garden  about  the  size  of  Fountain  Court, 
Temple  ; surrounded  by  the  tall  houses  of  the  quarter.  The 
garden  is  full  of  green.  A great  palm-tree  springs  up  in  the 
midst,  with  plentiful  shrubberies,  and  a talking  fountain.  The 
room  beside  the  divan  is  furnished  with  one  deal  table,  value 
five  shillings  ; four  wooden  chairs,  value  six  shillings  ; and  a 
couple  of  mats  and  carpets.  The  tables  and  chairs  are  luxuries 
imported  from  Europe.  The  regular  Oriental  dinner  is  put 
upon  co[)per  tra^^s,  which  are  laid  upon  low  stools.  Hence 

J Effeiidi’s  house  may  be  said  to  be  much  more  sumptuously 

furnished  than  those  of  the  Beys  and  Agas  his  neighbors. 

When  these  things  had  been  examined  at  leisure,  J ap- 

peared. Could  it  be  the  exquisite  of  the  ‘"Europa”  and  the 
Trois  Freres?  ” A man  — in  a long  yellow  gown,  with  a long 
beard  somewhat  tinged  with  gray,  with  his  head  shaved,  and 
wearing  on  it  first  a white  wadded  cotton  nightcap,  second,  a 
red  tarboosh  — made  his  appearance  and  welcomed  me  cor- 
diall}’.  It  was  some  time,  as  the  Americans  sa3*,  before  I could 
“ realize”  the  semillant  J.  of  old  times. 

He  shuffled  off  his  outer  slippers  before  he  curled  up  on  the 
divan  beside  me.  He  clapped  his  hands,  and  languidh"  called 
“ Mustapha.”  Mustapha  came  with  more  lights,  pipes,  and 
coffee  ; and  then  we  fell  to  talking  about  London,  and  I gave 
him  the  last  news  of  the  comrades  in  that  dear  cit3’.  As  we 
talked,  his  Oriental  coolness  and  languor  gave  way  to  British 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


437 

cordiality  ; he  was  the  most  amusing  companion  of  the Club 

once  more. 

He  has  adapted  himself  outwardly,  however,  to  the  Oriental 
life.  When  he  goes  abroad  he  rides  a gray  horse  with  red 
housings,  and  has  two  servants  to  walk  beside  him.  lie  wears 
a very  handsome,  grave  costume  of  dark  blue,  consisting  of  an 
embroidered  jacket  and  gaiters,  and  a pair  of  trousers,  which 
would  make  a set  of  dresses  for  an  English  famil}’.  His  beard 
curls  nobh^  over  his  chest,  his  Damascus  scimitar  on  his  thigh. 
His  red  cap  gives  him  a venerable  and  Be3’-like  appearanc<‘. 
There  is  no  gewgaw  or  parade  about  him,  as  in  some  of  your 
dandilied  }’oung  Agas.  1 should  say  that  he  is  a Major-Gen- 
eral of  Engineei’S,  or  a grave  ollicer  of  State.  We  and  the 
Turkilied  European,  who  found  us  at  dinner,  sat  smoking  in 
solemn  divan. 

His  dinners  were  excellent ; they  were  cooked  b}"  a regular 
Egyptian  female  cook.  AVe  had  delicate  cucumbers  stuffed 
with  forced-meats  ; 3’ellow  smoking  pilaffs,  the  pride  of  the 
Oriental  cuisine  ; kid  and  fowls  a I’Aboukir  and  a la  Pyramide  : 
a number  of  little  savory  plates  of  legumes  of  the  vegetable 
marrow  sort:  kibolis  with  an  excellent  sauce  of  plums  and 
piquant  liei’bs.  AVe  ended  the  repast  with  rub}^  pomegranates, 
pulled  to  pieces,  deliciously  cool  and  pleasant.  For  tlie  meats, 
we  certainly  ate  them  with  the  Infidel  knife  and  fork  ; but  for 
the  fruit,  we  put  our  hands  into  the  dish  and  flicked  them  into 
our  mouths  in  what  cannot  but  be  the  true  Oriental  manner. 
I asked  for  lamb  and  pistachio-nuts,  and  cream-tai*ts  au  poivre; 
but  J.’s  cook  did  not  furnish  us  with  either  of  those  historic 
dishes.  And  for  drink,  we  had  water  freshened  in  the  porous 
little  pots  of  gray  clay,  at  whose  spout  every  traveller  in  the 
East  has  sucked  delighted.  Also,  it  must  be  confessed,  we 
drank  certain  sherbets,  prepared  by  the  two  great  rivals,  Hadji 
Hodson  and  Bass  Bev  — the  bitterest  and  most  delicious  of 
draughts  ! O divine  Hodson  ! a camel’s  load  of  th}^  beer  came 
from  Beyrout  to  Jerusalem  while  w^e  were  there.  How  shall 
I ever  forget  the  joy  inspired  by  one  of  those  foaming  cool 
flasks  ? 

AVe  don’t  know  the  luxury  of  thirst  in  English  climes.  Sed- 
entary men  in  cities  at  least  have  seldom  ascertained  it ; but 
when  they  travel,  our  countrymen  guard  against  it  well.  The 
road  between  Cairo  and  Suez  is  jonche  with  soda-water  corks. 
Tom  Thumb  and  his  brothers  might  track  their  wa\"  across  the 
desert  b}"  those  landmarks. 

Cairo  is  magnificentlj^  picturesque  ; it  is  fine  to  have  paln» 


438 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


trees  in  your  gardens,  and  ride  about  on  a camel ; but,  after 
all,  I was  anxious  to  know  what  were  the  particular  excite- 
ments of  Eastern  life,  which  detained  J.,  who  is  a town-bred 
man,  from  his  natural  pleasures  and  occupations  in  London  ; 
where  his  family  don’t  hear  from  him,  where  his  room  is  still 
kept  read}'  at  home,  and  his  name  is  on  the  list  of  his  club  ; 
and  where  his  neglected  sisters  tremble  to  think  that  their 
Frederick  is  going  about  with  a great  beard  and  a crooked 
sword,  dressed  up  like  an  odious  Turk.  In  a "‘lark”  such  a 
costume  may  be  very  well ; but  home,  London,  a razor,  }'our 
sister  to  make  tea,  a pair  of  moderate  Christian  breeches  in  lieu 
of  those  enormous  Turkish  shulwars,  are  vastl}'  more  convenient 
in  the  long  run.  What  was  it  that  kept  him  away  from  these 
decent  and  accustomed  delights  ? 

It  couldn’t  be  the  black  eyes  in  the  balcony  — upon  his 
honor  she  was  only  the  black  cook,  who  has  done  the  pilaff, 
and  stuffed  the  cucumbers.  No,  it  was  an  indulgence  of  lazi- 
ness such  as  Europeans,  Englishmen  at  least,  don’t  know  how 
to  enjoy.  Here  he  lives  like  a languid  Lotus-eater — a dreamy, 
haz}',  lazy,  tobaccohed  life.  He  was  awa}'  from  evening-parties, 
he  said;  he  needn’t  wear  white  kid- gloves,  or  starched  neck- 
cloths, or  read  a newspaper.  And  even  this  life  at  Cairo 
was  too  civilized  for  him  ; Englishmen  passed  through ; old 
acquaintances  would  call ; the  great  pleasure  of  pleasures  was 
life  in  the  desert,  — under  the  tents,  with  still  more  nothing  to 
do  than  in  Caii-o  ; now  smoking,  now  cantering  on  Arabs,  and 
no  crowd  to  jostle  you  ; solemn  contemplations  of  the  stars  at 
night,  as  the  camels  were  picketed,  and  the  fires  and  the  pipes 
were  lighted. 

The  night-scene  in  the  city  is  very  striking  for  its  vastness 
and  loneliness.  Everybody  has  gone  to  rest  long  before  ten 
o’clock.  There  are  no  lights  in  the  enormous  buildings ; only 
the  stars  blazing  above,  with  tlieir  astonishing  brilliancy,  in  the 
blue,  peaceful  sky.  Your  guides  carry  a couple  of  little  lan- 
terns, which  redouble  the  darkness  in  the  solitary,  echoing 
street.  Mysterious  peoi)le  are  curled  up  and  sleeping  in  the 
porches.  A patrol  of  soldiers  passes,  and  hails  you.  There  is 
a light  yet  in  one  mosque,  where  some  devotees  are  at  prayers 
all  night ; and  you  hear  the  queerest  nasal  music  proceeding 
from  those  pious  believers.  As  you  pass  the  mad-house,  there 
is  one  poor  fellow  still  talking  to  the  moon  — no  sleep  for  him. 
He  howls  and  sings  there  all  the  night  — quite  cheerfully,  how'^- 
ever.  He  has  not  lost  his  vanity  with  his  reason  ; he  is  a 
Prince  in  spite  of  the  bars  and  the  straw. 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


439 


What  to  say  about  those  famous  edifices,  which  has  not  been 
better  said  elsewliere?  — but  you  will  not  lielicve  that  we  visited 
them,  unless  I bring  some  token  from  them.  Here  is  one.* 

That  white-capped  lad  skipped  up  tlie  stones  with  a jug  of 
water  in  his  baud,  to  refresh  weary  climbers  ; and,  squatting 
himself  down  on  the  summit,  was  designed  as  3^011  see.  The 
vast,  flat  laudscepe  stretches  behind  him  ; the  great  winding- 
river  ; the  purple  city,  with  forts,  and  domes,  and  spires  ; the 
green  fields,  and  palm-groves,  and  speckled  villages  ; the  plains 
still  covered  with  shining  inundations  — the  landscape  stretches 
far,  far  away,  until  it  is  lost  and  mingled  in  the  golden  horizon. 
It  is  poor  work,  this  landscape-painting  in  print.  Shelley’s 
two  sonnets  are  the  best  viev/s  that  1 know-  of  the  Pyramids  — 
better  than  the  reality  ; for  a man  may  hi}-  dowm  the  book,  and 
in  quiet  fancy  conjure  iq)  a picture  out  of  these  magnificent 
words,  which  shan’t  be  distiirlicd  by  an}-  pettinesses  or  mean 
realities,  — such  as  the  sw-arms  of  ho\vling  beggars,  who  jostle 
yon  about  the  actual  place,  and  scream  in  your  ears  incessantly , 
and  hang  on  your  skirts  and  baw-1  for  money. 

The  ride  to  the  Pyramids  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  possible. 
'In  the  fall  of  the  year,  though  the  sky  is  almost  cloudless  above 
yon,  the  sun  is  not  too  hot  to  bear ; and  the  landscape,  re- 
freshed by  the  subsiding  inundations,  delightfully  green  and 
cheerful.  We  made  up  a party  of  some  half-dozen  from  the 
hotel,  a lady  (the  kind  soda-w'ater  provider,  for  w'hose  hospital- 
ity the  most  grateful  compliments  are  hereby  offered)  being 
of  the  company,  bent  like  the  rest  upon  going  to  the  summit 
of  Cheops.  Those  who  w^ere  cautious  and  wise,  took  a brace  of 
donkeys.  At  least  five  times  during  the  route  did  my  animals 
fall  w-ith  me,  causing  me  to  repeat  the  Desert  experiment  over 
again,  but  w-ith  more  success.  The  pace  between  a moderate 
pair  of  legs  and  the  ground  is  not  many  inches.  By  eschewing 
stirrups,  the  donkey  could  fall,  and  the  rider  alight  on  the 
ground,  with  the  greatest  ease  and  grace.  Almost  everybody 
was  dow-n  and  up  again  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

We  passed  through  the  Ezbekieh  and  by  the  suburbs  of  the 
town,  where  the  garden-houses  of  the  Egyptian  noblesse  are 
situated,  to  Old  Cairo,  where  a ferry-boat  took  the  whole  party 
across  the  Nile,  with  that  noise  and  bawling  volubility  in  wdiich 
the  Arab  people  seem  to  be  so  undike  the  grave  and  silent 
Turks  ; and  so  took  our  course  for  some  eight  or  ten  miles  over 
the  devious  track  which  the  still  outlying  waters  obliged  us  to 
pursue.  The  Pyramids  were  in  sight  the  whole  way.  One  or 

* This  refers  to  an  illustrated  edition  of  the  work. 


440 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


two  thin,  silvery  clouds  were  hovering  over  them,  and  casting 
delicate,  rosy  shadows,  upon  the  grand,  simple,  old  piles.  Along 
the  track  we  saw  a score  of  pleasant  pictures  of  Eastern  life : 
— The  Pasha’s  horses  and  slaves  stood  caparisoned  at  his 
door ; at  the  gate  of  one  country-house,  I am  soitj"  to  say,  the 
Be}^’s  gig  was  in  waiting,  — a most  unromantic  chariot : the  hus- 
bandmen were  coming  into  the  cit^?^,  with  their  strings  of  donkey  s 
and  their  loads ; as  the}"  arrived,  the}’  stopped  and  sucked  at 
the  fountain  : a column  of  red-capped  troops  passed  to  drill,  with 
slouched  gait,  w’hite  uniforms,  and  glittering  bayonets.  Then 
we  had  the  pictures  at  the  quay : the  ferry-boat,  and  the  red- 
sailed  river-boat,  getting  under  weigh,  and  bound  up  the  stream. 
There  was  the  grain  market,  and  the  huts  on  the  opposide  side  ; 
and  that  beautiful  woman,  with  silver  armlets,  and  a face  the 
color  of  gold,  which  (the  nose-bag  having  been  luckily  removed) 
beamed  solemnly  on  us  Europeans,  like  a great  yellow  harvest- 
moon.  The  bunches  of  purpling  dates  were  pending  from  the 
branches ; gray  cranes  or  herons  w'ere  flying  over  the  cool, 
shining  lakes,  that  the  river’s  overflow  had  left  behind ; water 
was  gurgling  through  the  courses  by  the  rude  locks  and  barriers 
formed  there,  and  overflowing  this  patch  of  ground  ; whilst  the 
neighboring  fleld  was  fast  budding  into  the  more  brilliant  fresh 
green.  Single  dromedaries  were  stepping  along,  their  riders 
lolling  on  their  hunches  ; low  sail-boats  were  lying  in  the  canals ; 
now,  we  crossed  an  old  marble  bridge ; now,  w’e  went,  one  by 
one,  over  a ridge  of  slippery  earth  ; now,  we  floundered  through 
a small  lake  of  mud.  At  last,  at  about  half  a mile  off  the  Pyra- 
mid, we  came  to  a piece  of  water  some  two  score  yards  broad, 
where  a regiment  of  half-naked  Arabs,  seizing  upon  each  indi- 
vidual of  the  party,  bore  us  off  on  their  shoulders,  to  the  laugh- 
ter of. all,  and  the  great  perplexity  of  several,  who  every  moment 
expected  to  be  pitched  into  one  of  the  many  holes  with  which 
the  treacherous  lake  abounded. 

It  was  nothing  but  joking  and  laughter,  bullying  of  guides, 
shouting  for  interpreters,  quarrelling  about  sixpences.  We 
were  acting  a farce,  with  the  Pyramids  for  the  scene.  There 
they  rose  up  enormous  under  our  eyes,  and  the  most  absurd, 
trivial  things  were  going  on  under  their  shadow.  The  sublime 
had  disappeared,  vast  as  they  were.  Do  you  'remember  how 
Gulliver  lost  his  aw’e  of  tlie  tremendous  Brobdingnag  ladies? 
Every  traveller  must  go  through  all  sorts  of  chaffering,  and 
bargaining,  and  paltry  experiences,  at  this  spot.  You  look 
up  the  tremendous  steps,  with  a score  of  savage  ruffians  bellow- 
ing round  you ; you  hear  faint  cheers  and  cries  high  up,  and 


FROM  CORNHILL  TO  CAIRO. 


441 


catch  sight  of  little  reptiles  crawling  upwards ; or,  having 
achieved  the  summit,  they  come  hopping  and  bouncing  down 
again  from  degree  to  degree,  — the  cheers  and  cries  swell 
louder  and  more  disagreeable ; presentl}'  the  little  jumping 
thing,  no  bigger  than  an  insect  a moment  ago,  bounces  down 
upon  3^011  expanded  into  a panting  Major  of  Bengal  cavahy. 
He  drives  off  the  Arabs  with  an  oath,  — wipes  his  red  shining 
face  with  his  3'ellow  handkerchief,  drops  puffing  on  the  sand  in 
a shady  corner,  where  cold  fowl  and  hard  eggs  are  awaiting 
him,  and  the  next  minute  3’ou  see  his  nose  plunged  in  a foam- 
ing beaker  of  brand3^  and  soda-water.  He  can  say  now,  and 
for  ever,  he  has  been  up  the  Pyramid.  There  is  nothing  sub- 
lime in  it.  A"ou  cast  }’our  eye  once  more  up  that  staggering 
perspective  of  a zigzag  line,  wdiich  ends  at  the  summit,  and 
wish  you  were  up  there  — and  down  again.  Forwards! — Up 
with  you  ! It  must  be  done.  Six  Arabs  are  behind  you,  who 
won’t  let  you  escape  if  \'ou  would. 

The  importunity  of  these  ruffians  is  a ludicrous  anno3’ance 
to  which  a traveller  must  submit.  For  tw'O  miles  before  you 
reach  the  P3n’amids  the}^  seize  on  3’ou  and  never  cease  howling. 
Five  or  six  of  them  pounce  upon  one  victim,  and  never  leave 
him  until  they’  have  carried  him  up  and  down.  Sometimes  they 
conspire  to  run  a man  up  the  huge  stair,  and  bring  him,  half- 
killed  and  fainting,  to  the  top.  Always  a couple  of  brutes 
insist  upon  impelling  y’ou  sternwards  ; from  w’hom  the  only 
means  to  release  yourself  is  to  kick  out  vigorously  and  unmer- 
cifully, when  the  Arabs  will  possibly  retreat.  The  ascent  is 
not  the  least  romantic,  or  difficult,  or  sublime  : you  w’alk  up  a 
great  broken  staircase,  of  which  some  of  the  steps  are  four  feet 
high.  It’s  not  hard,  only’  a little  high.  A"ou  see  no  better 
view  from  the  top  than  y’ou  beheld  from  the  bottom  ; only’  a 
little  more  river,  and  sand,  and  rice-field.  A"ou  jump  down  the 
big  steps  at  your  leisure  ; but  your  meditations  y’ou  must  keep 
for  after-times,  — the  cursed  shrieking  of  the  Arabs  prevents 
all  thought  or  leisure. 

— And  this  is  all  y’ou  have  to  tell  about  the  Pvramids  ? 
Oh  I for  shame!  Not  a compliment  to  their  age  and  size? 
Not  a big  phrase,  — not  a rapture?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
y’OU  had  no  feeling  of  respect  and  awe?  Try,  man,  and  build 
up  a monument  of  words  as  lofty’  as  they’  are  — they’,  whom 
“ imber  edax”  and  aquilo  impotens”  and  the  flight  of  ages 
have  not  been  able  to  destroy  ! 

— No:  be  that  work  for  great  geniuses,  great  painters, 
great  poets  ! This  quill  Was  never  made  to  take  such  flights ; 


44^ 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


it  comes  of  the  wing  of  a humble  domestic  bird,  who  walks  a 
common ; who  talks  a great  deal  (and  hisses  sometimes)  ; who 
can’t  fly  far  or  high,  and  drops  always  very  quickly  ; and  whose 
unromantic  end  is,  to  be  laid  on  a Michaelmas  or  Christmas 
table,  and  there  to  be  discussed  for  half  an  hour  — let  us  hope, 
with  some  relish. 


Another  week  saw  us  in  the  Quarantine  Harbor  at  Malta, 
sphere  seventeen  cla3^s  of  prison  and  quiet  were  almost  agree- 
able, after  the  incessant  sight-seeing  of  the  last  two  months. 
In  the  interval,  between  the  23rd  of  August  and  the  27th  of 
October,  we  maj'  boast  of  having  seen  more  men  and  cities 
than  most  travellers  have  seen  in  such  a time : — Lisbon, 
Cadiz,  Gibraltar,  Malta,  Athens,  Smyrna,  Constantinople,  Jeru- 
salem, Cairo.  I shall  have  the  carpet-bag  which  has  visited 
these  places  in  compaii}^  with  its  owner,  embroidered  with  their 
names  ; as  militaiy  flags  are  emblazoned,  and  laid  up  in  ordi- 
nary, to  be  looked  at  in  old  age.  With  what  a number  of 
sights  and  pictures, — of  novel  sensations,  and  lasting  and 
delightful  remembrances,  does  a man  furnish  his  mind  after 
such  a tour  1 You  forget  all  the  anno^mnces  of  travel ; but 
the  pleasure  remains  with  you,  through  that  kind  provision  of 
nature  by  which  a man  forgets  being  ill,  but  thinks  with  joy 
of  getting  well,  and  can  remember  all  the  minute  circumstances 
of  his  convalescence.  1 forget  what  sea-sickness  is  now : 
though  it  occupies  a woful  portion  of  my  Journal.  There 
was  a time  on  board  when  the  bitter  ale  was  decidedly"  muddy ; 
and  the  cook  of  the  ship  deserting  at  Constantinople,  it  must 
be  confessed  his  successor  was  for  some  time  before  he  got  his 
hand  in.  These  sorrows  have  passed  awa}^  with  the  soothing 
influence  of  time : the  pleasures  of  the  vo^mge  remain,  let  us 
hope,  as  long  as  life  will  endure.  It  was  but  for  a couple  of 
da\'s  that  those  shining  columns  of  the  Parthenon  glowed  under 
the  blue  skv  there  ; but  the  experience  of  a life  could  scarcely 
impress  them  more  vividly.  We  saw  Cadiz  only  for  an  hour; 
but  the  white  buildings,  and  the  glorious  blue  sea,  how  clear 
they  are  to  the  memoiy  ! — with  the  tang  of  that  gips}'’s  guitar 
dancing  in  the  market-place,  in  the  midst  of  the  fruit,  and  the 
beggars,  and  the  sunshine.  Who  can  forget  the  Bosphorus,  the 
brightest  and  fairest  scene  in  all  the  world ; or  the  towering 
lines  of  Gibraltar ; or  the  great  piles  of  Mafra,  as  we  rode  into 
the  Tagus?  As  I write  this,  and  think,  back  comes  Rhodes, 
with  its  old  towers  and  artillery,  and  that  wonderful  atmos- 


FROM  CORNIIILL  TO  CAIRO. 


443 


phere,  and  that  astonishing  blue  sea  whieh  environs  the  island. 
The  Aral)  riders  go  pacing  over  the  plains  of  Sharon,  in  the 
rosy  twilight,  just  !)efore  sunrise  ; and  1 can  see  the  ghastly 
Moab  mountains,  with  the  Dead  Sea  gleaming  before  them,  from 
the  mosque  on  the  way  towards  Bethany.  The  black,  gnarled 
trees  of  Gethsemane  lie  at  the  foot  of  Olivet,  and  the  yellow 
ramparts  of  the  city  rise  up  on  the  stony  hills  beyond. 

But  the  hai)piest  and  best  of  all  the  recollections,  perhaps, 
are  those  of  the  hours  passed  at  night  on  the  deck,  v\dien  the 
stars  were  shining  overhead,  and  the  liours  were  tolled  at  their 
time,  and  your  thoughts  were  fixed  upon  home  far  away.  As 
the  sun  rose  I once  heard  the  priest,  from  the  minaret  of  Con- 
stantinople, crying  out,  “ Come  to  prayer,”  with  his  shrill  voice 
ringing  through  the  clear  air ; and  saw,  at  the  same  hour,  the 
Arab  prostrate  himself  and  i)ray,  and  the  Jew  Rabbi,  bending 
over  his  book,  and  worshipping  the  Maker  of  Turk  and  Jew. 
Sitting  at  home  in  London,  and  writing  this  last  line  of  fare- 
well, those  figures  come  back  the  clearest  of  all  to  the  memory, 
with  the  picture,  too,  of  our  ship  sailing  over  the  peaceful  Sab' 
bath  sea,  and  our  own  prayers  and  services  celebrated  there. 
So  each,  in  his  fashion,  and  after  his  kind,  is  bowing  down,  and 
adoring  the  Father,  who  is  equall}’  above  all.  Cavil  not,  3-ou 
brother  or  sister,  if  3-0111’  neighbor’s  voice  is  not  like  yours  ; only 
hope  that  his  words  are  honest  (as  far  as  they  may  be),  and  his 
heart  humble  and  thankfub 


THE  ENI>< 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK 


OF  1842. 


TO 


CHARLES  LEVER,  ESQ., 


OF  TEMPLEOGUE  HOUSE,  NEAR  DUBLIN. 

My  dear  Lever,  — Harry  Lorrequer  needs  no  compliment- 
ing in  a dedication  ; and  1 would  not  venture  to  inscribe  this 
volume  to  the  Editor  of  the  “ Dublin  University  Magazine,” 
who,  I fear,  must  disapprove  of  a great  deal  which  it  con- 
tain - 

But  allow  me  to  dedicate  my  little  book  to  a good  Irisnman 
(the  hearty  charity  of  whose  visionary  red-coats,  some  substan- 
tial personages  in  black  might  imitate  to  advantage),  and  to  a 
friend  from  whom  I have  received  a hundred  acts  of  kindness 
and  cordial  hospitality. 

La3dng  aside  for  a moment  the  travelling-title  of  Mr.  Tit- 
marsh,  let  me  acknowledge  these  favors  in  mj^  own  name,  and 
subscribe  mj^self,  my  dear  Lever, 

Most  sincerel}"  and  gratefull}"  ^^oiirs, 

W.  M.  THACKERAT. 


London,  April  27, 1843. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK 


CHAPTER  I. 

A SUMMER  DAY  IN  DUBLIN,  OR  THERE  AND  THEREABOUTS. 

The  coach  tliat  hrin<j^s  the  passenger  by  wood  and  mountain, 
by  brawling  waterfall  and  gloomy  plain,  by  the  loneh’  lake  of 
Testiniog  and  across  the  swinging  world’s  wonder  of  a Menai 
Bridge,  through  dismal  Anglesea  to  dismal  Holyhead  — the  Bir- 
mingliam  mail,  — manages  matters  so  cleverh%  that  after  ten 
hours’  ride  the  traveller  is  thrust  incontinently  on  board  the 
packet,  and  the  steward  says  there’s  no  use  in  providing  dinner 
on  board  because  the  [)assage  is  so  siiort. 

That  is  true  : but  why  not  give  us  half  an  hour  on  shore?  Ten 
hours  spent  on  a coach-box  render  the  dinner  question  one  of 
extreme  importance  ; and  as  Ihe  packet  reaches  Kingstown  at 
midnight,  when  all  the  world  is  asleep,  the  inn-larders  locked  up, 
and  the  cook  in  bed  ; and  as  the  mail  is  not  landed  until  five  in 
the  morning  (at  which  hour  the  passengers  are  considerately 
awakened  by  a great  stamping  and  shouting  overhead),  might 
not  “Lord  Lowther”  give  us  one  little  half-hour?  Even  the 
steward  agreed  that  it  was  a useless  and  atrocious  tyranny  ; and, 
indeed,  after  a little  demur,  produced  a half-dozen  of  fried  eggs, 
a feeble  makeshift  for  a dinner. 

Our  passage  across  from  the  Head  was  made  in  a rain  so 
pouring  and  steady,  that  sea  and  coast  were  entirely  hidden 
from  ns,  and  one  could  see  very  little  beyond  the  glowing  tip 
of  the  cigar  which  remained  alight  nobly  in  spite  of  the 
weather.  When  the  gallant  exertions  of  that  fiery  spirit  were 
over  for  ever,  and  burning  bravely  to  the  end  it  had  breathed 
its  last  in  doing  its  master  service,  all  became  black  and  cheer- 
less around  ; the  passengers  had  dropped  off  one  by  one,  pre- 
ferring to  be  dry  and  ill  below  rather  than  wet  and  squeamish 


6 


TPIE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


above  : even  the  mate  with  his  gokl-laced  cap  (who  is  so  aston- 
ishingly like  Mr.  Charles  Dickens  that  he  might  pass  for  that 
gentleman)  — even  the  mate  said  he  would  go  to  his  cabin  and 
turn  in.  So  there  remained  nothing  for  it  but  to  do  as  all  the 
world  had  done. 

Hence  it  was  impossible  to  institute  the  comparison  between 
the  Bay  of  Naples  and  that  of  Dublin  (the  Bee  of  Neeples  the 
former  is  sometimes  called  in  this  country) , where  I have  heard 
the  likeness  asserted  in  a great  number  of  societies  and  con- 
versations. But  how  could  one  see  the  Ba}^  of  Dublin  in  the 
dark?  and  how,  supposing  one  could  see  it,  should  a person 
behave  who  has  never  seen  the  Bay  of  Naples?  It  is  but  to 
take  the  similarity  for  granted,  and  remain  in  bed  till  morning. 

When  eveiybod}'  was  awakened  at  five  o’clock  b}’  the  noise 
made  upon  the  removal  of  the  mail-bags,  there  was  heard  a 
cheerless  dribbling  and  pattering  overhead,  which  led  one  to 
wait  still  further  until  the  rain  should  cease.  At  length  the 
steward  said  the  last  boat  was  going  ashore,  and  receiving 
half  a crown  for  his  own  services  (the  regular  tariff)  intimated 
likewise  that  it  was  the  custom  for  gentlemen  to  compliment 
the  stewardess  with  a shilling,  which  ceremony  was  also  com- 
plied with.  No  douljt  she  is  an  amialfie  woman,  and  deserves 
an}'  sum  of  money.  As  for  impiiring  whether  she  merited  it 
or  not  in  this  instance,  thnt  surely  is  quite  unfair.  A ti*av- 
eller  who  sto[)S  to  impiire  the  deserts  of  every  individual  claim- 
ant of  a shilling  on  his  road,  had  best  stay  quiet  at  liome.  If 
we  only  got  what  we  deserved^  — heaven  save  us!  — many  of 
us  might  whistle  for  a dinner. 

A long  i)ier,  with  a steamer  or  two  at  hand,  and  a few 
small  vessels  lying  on  either  side  of  the  jetty  ; a town  irreg- 
ularly built,  with  many  handsome  terraces,  some  churches,  and 
showy-looking  hotels  ; a few  peo|)le  straggling  on  the  beach  ; 
two  or  three  cars  at  the  railroad  station,  which  runs  along  the 
shore  as  far  as  Dublin  ; the  sea  stretching  interminably  east- 
wanl ; to  the  north  the  Hill  of  Howth,  lying  gray  behind  the 
mist ; and,  directly  under  his  feet  upon  the  wet,  black,  shin- 
ing, sli[)pery  deck,  an  agreeable  reflection  of  his  own  legs,  dis- 
appearing seemingly  in  the  direction  of  the  cabin  from  which 
he  issues  ; are  the  sights  which  a traveller  may  remark  on  com- 
ing on  deck  at  Kingstown  pier  on  a wet  morning  — let  us  say 
on  an  average  morning  ; for,  according  to  the  statement  of  well- 
informed  natives,  the  Irish  day  is  more  often  rainy  than  other- 
wise. A hideous  obelisk,  stuck  upon  four  fat  balls,  and  sur- 
jiiounted  with  a crown  on  a cushion  (the  Itittcr  were  no  bad 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


7 


emblems  perhaps  of  the  monarch  in  whose  honor  they  were 
raised),  coininemorates  the  sacred  spot  at  which  George  IV. 
quitted  Ireland.  Yon  are  landed  here  from  the  steamer;  and 
a carman,  who  is  dawdling  in  the  neighborhood,  with  a straw 
in  his  mouth,  comes  leisnrel}'  up  to  ask  whether  you  will  go 
to  Dul)liu?  Is  it  natural  indolence,  or  the  elfect  of  despair 
because  of  the  neighboring  railroad,  which  renders  him  so  in- 
diherent?  — lie  does  not  even  take  the  straw  out  of  his  mouth 
as  he  i)roposes  the  question  — he  seems  quite  careless  as  to 
the  answer. 

He  said  he  would  take  me  to  Dublin  “ in  three  quarthers,” 
as  soon  as  we  began  a parlc}’.  As  to  the  fare,  he  would  not 
hear  of  it  — he  said  he  would  leave  it  to  my  honor ; he  would 
take  me  for  nothing.  Was  it  possible  to  refuse  such  a genteel 
offer?  The  times  are  veiy  much  changed  since  those  described 
b}"  the  facetious  Jack  Hinton,  when  the  carmen  tossed  up  for 
the  passenger,  and  those  who  won  him  took  him  : for  the  re- 
maining cars  on  the  stand  did  not  seem  to  take  the  least  in- 
terest in  the  l)argain,  or  to  offer  to  overdrive  or  underbid  their 
comrade  in  aiu’  wa}'. 

Before  that  day,  so  memorable  for  joy  and  sorrow,  for  rap- 
ture at  receiving  its  monarch  and  tearful  grief  at  losing  him, 
when  George  IV.  came  and  left  the  maritime  resort  of  the  citi- 
zens of  Dublin,  it  bore  a less  genteel  name  than  that  which 
it  owns  at  present,  and  was  called  Dunleary.  After  that  glo- 
rious event  Dunleary  disdained  to  l)e  Dunleaiy  any  longer,  and 
became  Kingstown  henceforward  and  for  ever.  Numerous  ter- 
races and  pleasure-houses  have  been  built  in  the  place  — they 
stretch  row  after  row  along  the  banks  of  the  sea,  and  rise 
one  above  another  on  the  hill.  The  lents  of  these  houses  are 
said  to  be  very  high ; the  Dublin  citizens  crowd  into  them  in 
Slimmer ; and  a great  source  of  pleasure  and  comfort  must  it 
be  to  them  to  have  the  fresh  sea-breezes  and  prospects  so  near 
to  the  metropolis. 

The  better  sort  of  houses  are  handsome  and  spacious  ; but 
the  fashionable  quarter  is  yet  in  an  unfinished  state,  for  en- 
terprising architects  are  always  beginning  new  roads,  rows  and 
terraces  : nor  are  those  already  built  b}-  any  means  complete. 
Beside  the  aristocratic  part  of  the  town  is  a commercial  one, 
and  nearer  to  Dublin  stretch  lines  of  low  cottages  which  have 
not  a Kingstown  look  at  all,  but  are  evidently  of  the  Dunleaiy 
period.  It  is  quite  curious  to  see  in  the  streets  where  the  shops 
are,  how  often  the  painter  of  the  signboards  begins  with  big 
letters,  and  ends,  for  want  of  space,  with  small ; and  the  Eng« 


8 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


lishman  accustomed  to  the  tliriving  neatness  and  regularity 
which  characterize  towns  great  and  small  in  his  own  country, 
can’t  fail  to  notice  the  difterence  here.  The  houses  have  a 
battered,  rakish  look,  and  seem  going  to  ruin  before  their  time. 
As  seamen  of  all  nations  come  hither  who  Iiave  made  no  vow 
of  temperance,  there  are  plenty  of  liquor-shops  still,  and  shabby 
cigar-shops,  and  shabby^  milliners’  and  tailors’  with  fly-blown 
prints  of  old  fashions.  The  bakers  and  apothecaries  make  a 
great  brag  of  their  calling,  and  you  see  medical  hall,  or  pub- 
lic BAKERY,  BALLYRAGGET  FLOUR-STORE,  (oi’  whatever  the  name 
may^  be,)  pompously^  inscribed  over  very  humble  tenements. 
Some  comfortable  grocers’  and  butchers’  shops,  and  numbers 
of  shabby’  sauntering  people,  the  younger  part  of  whom  are 
barelegged  and  bareheaded,  make  up  the  rest  of  the  picture 
which  the  stranger  sees  as  his  car  goes  jingling  through  the 
street. 

After  the  town  come  the  suburbs  of  pleasure-houses  ; low 
one-storied  cottages  for  the  most  part : some  neat  and  fresh, 
some  that  have  passed  away’  from  the  genteel  state  altogether, 
and  exhibit  downright  poverty’ ; some  in  a state  of  transition, 
with  broken  windows  and  pretty  romantic  names  upon  tumble- 
down  o-ates.  AMio  lives  in  them?  One  fancies  that  the  chairs 
and  tables  inside  are  broken,  that  the  teapot  on  the  breakfast- 
table  has  no  siiout,  and  the  tablecloth  is  ragged  and  sloppy ; 
that  the  lady  of  the  house  is  in  dubious  curl-papers,  and  the 
gentleman,  with  an  imperial  to  his  chin,  wears  a flaring  dress- 
ing-gown all  ragged  at  the  ell)ows. 

To  be  sure,  a traveller  who  in  ten  minutes  can  sec  not  only 
the  outsides  of  houses,  but  the  interiors  of  the  same,  must 
have  remarkably  keen  sight ; and  it  is  early  yet  to  speculate. 
It  is  clear,  however,  that  these  are  ])leasiire-houses  for  a certain 
class  ; and  looking  at  the  houses,  one  can’t  but  foncy  the  inhab- 
itants resemble  them  somewhat.  The  car,  on  its  road  to  Dub- 
lin, passes  by  numbers  of  these  — by  more  shabbiness  than  a 
Londoner  will  see  in  the  course  of  his  home  peregrinations  for 
a y’ear. 

The  capalfllities  of  the  country,  however,  are  very  great, 
and  in  many’  instances  have  been  taken  advantage  of:  for  y’ou 
see,  besides  the  misery,  numerous  handsome  houses  and  parks 
along  the  road,  having  fine  lawns  and  woods  ; and  the  sea  is 
in  our  view  at  a quarter  of  nii  hour’s  ride  from  Dublin.  It  is 
the  continual  appearance  of  this  sort  of  wealth  which  makes 
the  poverty  more  striking  : and  thus  between  the  two  (for  there 
is  no  vacant  space  of  fields  between  Kingstown  and  Dublin) 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


9 


the  car  reaches  the  city.  There  is  but  little  commerce  on  this 
road,  which  was  also  in  extremely  bad  re[)air.  It  is  negdected 
for  the  sake  of  its  thriving  neiglibor  the  railroad  ; on  which  a 
dozen  pretty  little  stations  accommodate  the  inhabitants  of  the 
various  villag(\s  through  wliieli  we  i)ass. 

The  entrance  to  the  ca[)itnl  is  very  handsome.  There  is  no 
bustle  and  throng  of  carriages,  as  in  London  ; but  you  pass 
by  numerous  rows  of  neat  liouses,  fronted  with  gardens  and 
adorned  with  all  sorts  ol’ gay-looking  cree[)ers.  Pretty  market- 
gardens,  with  trim  beds  of  [)lants  and  shining  glass-houses, 
give  the  suburljs  a riante  and  cheerful  look;  and,  passing  un- 
der the  arch  of  the  railway,  we  are  in  the  city  itself.  Hence 
you  come  upon  several  old-fashioned,  well-built,  airy,  statel_y 
streets,  and  through  Fitzwilliam  Scpiare,  a noble  place,  the  gar- 
den of  which  is  full  of  flowers  and  foliage.  The  leaves  are 
green,  and  not  black  as  in  similar  i)laces  in  London  ; the  red 
brick  houses  tall  and  handsome.  Presently  the  car  stops  before 
an  extremely  big  red  house,  iu  that  extrcjiiel}'  large  square, 
Stephen’s  Green,  where  IMr.  O’Connell  says  there  is  one  da3'  or 
other  to  be  a Parliament.  There  is  room  enough  for  that,  or 
for  any  other  edilice  which  fancy  or  [)atriotism  ma}’  have  a 
mind  to  erect,  for  i)art  of  one  of  the  sides  of  the  square  is  not 
yet  built,  and  you  see  the  fields  and  the  country  be^^ond. 


This  then  is  the  chief  city  of  the  aliens. — The  hotel  to 
which  I had  been  directed  is  a respectable  old  edifice,  much  fre- 
quented bv  families  from  the  country,  and  where  the  solitary 
traveller  mav  likewise  find  societv  : for  he  ma}’  either  use  the 
“ Shelburne”  as  an  hotel  or  a boarding-house,  in  which  latter 
case  he  is  comfortablv  accommodated  at  the  very  moderate 
dailv  charge  of  six-and-eight-pence.  For  this  charge  a copious 
breakfast  is  provided  for  him  in  the  cotfee-room,  a perpetual 
luncheon  is  likewise  there  spread,  a plentiful  dinner  is  ready  at 
six  o’clock  : after  which  there  is  a drawing-room  and  a rubber 
of  whist,  with  toy  and  coffee  and  cakes  in  plenty  to  satisfy  the 
largest  appetite.  The  hotel  is  majestically  conducted  b}"  clerks 
and  other  officers  ; the  landlord  himself  does  not  appear,  after 
the  honest,  comfortable  English  fashion,  but  lives  in  a private 
mansion  hard  by,  where  his  name  ma}'  be  read  inscribed  on  a 
brass-plate,  like  that  of  an}^  other  private  gentleman. 

A woman  melodiously^ crying  ‘‘  Dublin  Bay  herrings”  passed 
just  as  we  came  up  to  the  door,  and  as  that  fish  is  famous 


10 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


throughout  Europe,  I seized  the  earliest  opportunitj^  and  ordered 
a broiled  one  for  breakfast  It  merits  all  its  reputation : and 
in  this  respect  I should  thirk  the  Ba}"  of  Dublin  is  far  superior 
to  its  rival  of  Naples.  Are  there  an}’  herriugs  in  Naples  Bay? 
Dolphins  there  may  be  ; and  Mount  Vesuvius,  to  be  sure,  is 
bigger  than  even  the  Hill  of  Ilowth  ; but  a dolphin  is  better  in 
a sonnet  than  at  a breakfast,  and  what  poet  is  there  that,  at  cer- 
tain periods  of  the  day,  would  hesitate  in  his  choice  between 
the  two? 

AVith  tliis  fame  us  broiled  herring  the  morning  papers  are 
served  up  ; and  a great  part  of  these,  too,  gives  opportunity  of 
reflection  to  the  new-comer,  and  shows  him  how  different  this 
country  is  from  his  own.  tSonie  hundred  years  hence,  when 
students  w’ant  to  inform  themselves  of  the  history  of  the  present 
day,  and  refer  to  liles  of  Times  and  Chronicle  for  the  purpose, 
I think  it  is  possible  that  they  will  consult,  not  so  much  those 
luminous  and  philosophical  leading-articles  which  call  our  at- 
tention at  present  both  by  the  majesty  of  their  eloquence  and 
the  largeness  of  their  type,  but  that  they  will  turn  to  those 
})arts  of  the  journals  into  which  information  is  squeezed  in  the 
smallest  possible  print : to  the  advertisements,  namely,  the  law 
and  police  reports,  and  to  the  instructive  narratives  supplied 
by  that  ill-used  body  of  men  who  transcribe  knowledge  at  the 
rate  of  a penny  a line. 

The  pa[)ers  before  me  ( The  Morning  Register^  Liberal  and 
Roman  Catholic,  Saunders's  News-Letter^  neutral  and  Conserva- 
tive,) give  a lively  picture  of  the  movement  of  city  and  country 
on  this  present  fourth  day  of  July,  1842,  and  the  Plnglishman 
can  scarcely  fail,  as  he  reads  them,  to  note  many  small  points 
of  difference  existing  between  his  own  country  and  this.  How 
do  the  Irish  amuse  themselves  in  the  capital?  The  love  for 
theatrical  exhibitions  is  evidenlly  not  very  great.  Theatre 
Royal  — jMiss  Kiunble  and  the  Sonnambula,  an  Anglo-Italian 
^ imi)ortation.  Theatre  Royal,  Abbey  Street  — The  Temple  of 
Alagic  and  the  AVizard,  last  week.  Adelphi  Theatre,  Great 
Brunswick  Street  — Th^  Original  Seven  Lancashire  Bell-ring- 
ers: a delicious  excitement  indeed!  Portobello  Gardens  — 
“ The  last  KurPTiox  bit  six,”  says  the  advertisement  in  capi- 
tals. And,  linally,  “ Miss  1 1 ayes  will  give  her  first  and  fare- 
well concert  at  tlie  Rotunda,  previous  to  leaving  her  native 
[country.”  Only  one  instance  of  Irish  talent  do  we  read  of,  and 
that,  in  a desponding  tone,  announces  its  intention  of  quitting 
its  native  country.  ^Vll  the  rest  of  the  pleasures  of  the  evening 
are  importations  from  cockney-land.  The  Sonnambula  from 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  HOOK. 


11 


Covent  Garden,  the  Wizard  from  the  Strand,  the  Seven  Lan- 
cashire Bell-ringers  from  Islington,  or  the  City  Road,  no  doubt ; 
and  as  for  “The  last  Eruption  but  Six,”  it  has  enunped  near 
the  “Elephant  and  Casth;  ” any  time  these  two  }’ears,  until 
the  eockne^’s  would  wonder  at  it  no  longer. 

The  commcreial  advertisements  are  but  few  — a few  horses 
and  ears  for  sale  ; some  llaming  announcements  of  insurance 
companies  ; some  “ cmiporiums”  of  Scotch  tweeds  and  English 
broadcloths  ; an  auction  for  damaged  sugar ; and  an  estate  or 
two  for  sale.  Tliey  fu;  in  the  columns  languidly,  and  at  their 
ease  as  it  were  : how  dilferent  from  the  throng,  and  squeeze, 
and  bustle  of  the  commercial  part  of  a London  paper,  where 
every  man  (except  Mr.  George  Robins)  states  his  case  as  briefly 
as  i)ossible,  because  thousands  more  are  to  be  heard  besides 
himself,  and  as  if  he  had  no  time  lor  talking  ! 

The  most  active  advertisers  are  the  schoolmasters.  It  is 
now  the  hap[)y  time  of  the  ^Midsummer  holidays  ; and  the  peda- 
gogues make  Avonderful  attempts  to  encourage  [)arents,  and  to 
atti-act  fresh  pupils  for  tlie  ensuing  half-year.  Of  all  these  an- 
nouncements that  of  Madame  Shanahan  (a  delightful  name)  is 
perliaps  the  most  brilliant.  “To  Barents  and  Guardians. — 
Ikiris. — Such  [)arents  and  guardians  as  may  Avish  to  entrust 
their  children  for  education  in  its  fullest  extent  to  Madame 
Shanahan,  can  have  the  advantage  of  heing  conducted  to  Paris 
by  her  brother,  the  Rev.  J.  B.  O’Reilh',  of  Church  Street 
Chapel : ” Avhich  admiral )le  arrangement  carries  the  parents  to 
Baris  and  leaves  the  children  in  Dublin.  AIi,  Madame,  you 
may  take  a Erench  title  ; l)ut  your  heart  is  still  in  your  country, 
and  you  are  to  i\\(i  fullest  extent  an  Irishwoman  still! 

Bond  legends  j^re  to  be  found  in  Irish  books  regarding 
places  Avhere  you  may  noAv  see  a round  tower  and  a little  old 
chapel,  tAvelve  feet  square,  Avhere  famous  uniA^ersities  are  once 
said  to  have  stood,  and  Avhich  liaA'e  accommodated  myriads  of 
students.  Mrs.  Hall  mentions  Glendalough,  in  Wicklow,  as 
one  of  these  places  of  learning  ; nor  can  the  fact  be  questioned, 
as  the  uniA’'ersities  existed  liundreds  of  years  since,  and  no  sort 
of  records  are  left  regarding  tlicmi.  A century  hence  some  an- 
tiquary may  light  u{.)on  a Dublin  paper,  and  form  marvellous 
calculations  regarding  the  state  of  education  in  the  countr3\ 
For  instance,  at  Bective  House  Seminaiy,  conducted  b}"  Dr, 
J.  L.  Burke,  ex-Scholar  T.C.D.,  no  less  than  two  hundred  and 
three  }’oung  gentlemen  took  prizes  at  the  Midsummer  examim^- 
tion  : nay,  some  of  the  most  meritorious  carried  otf  a dozen 
premiums  apiece,  A Dr.  Delamere,  ex-^cholar  T.CbD,,  clis- 


12 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


tributed  three  hundred  and  twent}^  rewards  to  his  young  friends  : 
and  if  we  ailow  that  one  lad  in  twenty  is  a prizeman,  it  is  clear 
that  there  must  be  six  thousand  four  hundred  and  Ibrty  youths 
under  the  Doctor’s  care. 

Other  schools  are  advertised  in  the  same  journals,  each  with 
its  hundred  of  prize-bearers  ; and  if  other  schools  are  advertised, 
how  many  more  must  there  be  in  the  country  which  are  not  ad- 
vertised ! There  must  be  hundreds  of  thousands  of  prizemen, 
millions  of  scholars  ; besides  national-schools,  hedge-schools, 
infant-schools,  and  the  like.  The  English  reader  will  see  the 
accuracy  of  the  calculation. 

In  the  Monting  Register^  the  Englishman  will  find  something 
to  the  full  as  curious  and  startling  to  him ; you  read  gravely  in 
the  English  language  how  the  Bishop  of  Aureliopolis  has  just 
been  consecrated  ; and  that  the  distinction  has  been  conferred 
upon  him  b}'  — the  Holy  Pontiff!  — the  Pope  of  Rome,  by^  all 
that  is  holy  ! Such  an  announcement  sounds  quite  strange  in 
English^  and  in  your  own  country,  as  it  were  : or  isn’t  it  your  own 
country?  Suppose  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbuiy  were  to  send 
over  a clergyman  to  Rome,  and  consecrate  him  Bishop  of  the  Pal- 
atine or  tlie  Suburra,  1 wonder  how  his  Holiness  would  like  that? 

There  is  a report  of  Dr.  Miley’s  sermon  upon  the  occasion 
of  the  new  bishop’s  consecration ; and  the  Register  happily 
lauds  the  discourse  for  its  “ refined  and  fervent  eloquence.” 
The  Doctor  salutes  the  Lord  Bishop  of  Aureliopolis  on  his  ad* 
mission  among  the  “ Princes  of  the  Sanctuary,”  gives  a blow 
en  passant  at  tlie  Establislied  C'hurcli,  wliereof  the  revenues,  ho 
elegantly  says,  might  excite  the  zeal  of  Dives  or  Epicurus  to 
become  a bishop,”  and  having  vented  his  sly  wi'ath  upon  the 
“ courtly  artifice  and  intrigue”  of  the  Bench,  [)roceeds  to  make 
the  most  outrageous  conq)arisons  with  regard  to  my'  Lord  of 
Aurelio[)olis  ; his  virtues,  liis  sinceritv,  and  the  severe  priva- 
tions and  persecutions  which  acceptance  of  the  episcopal  office 
entails  upon  him. 

“That  very’  evening,”  say’s  the  Register^  “ the  new  bishop 
entertained  at  dinner,  in  the  chapel-house,  a select  number  of 
friends  ; amongst  whom  w’ere  the  ofliciatiug  prelates  and  cler- 
gymen who  assisted  in  the  ceremonies  of  the  day’.  The  repast 
w’as  provided  by  Mr.  Jude,  of  Grafton  kStreet,  and  was  served 
up  in  a style  of  elegance  and  comfort  that  did  great  honor  to 
that  gentleman’s  character  as  a restaurateur.  The  wines  were 
of  tJte  richest  and  rarest  quality.  It  may’  be  truly’  said  to  have 
been  an  entertainment  w’here  the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow 
of  soul  predominated.  The  conq)any’  broke  up  at  nine.” 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


13 


And  so  my  lord  is  scarcely  out  of  chapel  but  his  privations 
begin  ! Well.  Let  us  lioi)e  tliat,  in  the  course  of  his  episco- 
pacy,  he  may  incur  no  gn^ater  liardshi[)S,  and  tliat  Dr.  Miley 
may  come  to  be  a bisho[)  too  in  his  time  ; when  perhaps  he  will 
have  a better  opinion  of  the  Bench. 

The  ceremony'  and  leelings  described  are  curious,  I think  ; 
and  more  so  [)erhaps  to  a person  who  was  in  England  only 
3’esterday,  and  (piitted  it  just  as  their  Graces,  Lordsliips,  and 
Reverences  were  sitting  down  to  dinner.  Among  what  new 
sights,  ideas,  customs,  does  tlu;  iMiglish  traveller  lind  himself 
after  that  brief  six-hours’  jouriiev  from  Holyhead  ! 

There  is  but  one  paid  more  of  the  papers  to  be  looked  at ; 
and  that  is  the  most  painful  of  all.  In  the  law-reports  of  the 
Tipperarv  s[)ecial  commission  sitting  at  Clonmel,  you  read  that 
Patrick  Ilyrnc  is  brought  up  for  sentence,  for  the  murder  of 
Robert  Hall,  Esq.  : and  Chief  Justice  Doherty  says,  ‘'Patrick 
B^'rne,  I will  not  now  recapitulate  the  circumstances  of  3'our 
enormous  crime,  but  guiltv  as  }'ou  are  o(‘  the  barbaritj’  of  hav- 
ing pcr[)etrated  with  your  hand  the  foul  murder  of  an  unotfend- 
ing  old  man — barbarous,  cowardl}',  and  cruel  as  that  act  was 
— there  lives  one  more  guill\^  man,  and  that  is  he  whose  dia- 
bolical mind  hatched  the  foul  conspiracy  of  which  }’ou  were  but 
the  instrument  and  the  peiqietrator.  Whoever  that  may  be,  I 
do  not  enyy  him  his  protracted  existence.  He  has  sent  that 
aged  gentleman,  without  one  moment’s  warning,  to  face  his 
God  ; but  he  has  done  more  : lie  has  brought  3 011,  unhappy 
man,  with  more  deliberation  and  more  cruelty,  to  face  your  God, 
Willi  the  wei(/hl  of  that  man's  blood  upon  you.  I have  now  onW 
to  pronounce  the  sentence  of  the  law  : ” — it  is  the  usual  sen- 
tence, with  the  usual  prayer  of  the  judge,  that  the  Lord  ma3^ 
have  mercy  upon  the  couAuct’s  soul. 

Timothy  Woods,  a young  man  of  twent3^  3’ears  of  age,  is 
then  tried  for  the  murder  of  Michael  Laffan.  The  Attorney- 
General  states  the  case  : — On  the  19th  of  Ma3’last,  two  assas- 
sins dragged  Laffan  from  the  house  of  Patrick  Cummins,  fired 
a pistol-shot  at  him,  and  left  him  dead  as  the3^  thought.  Laffan, 
though  mortally  wounded,  crawled  awa3'  after  the  fall ; when 
the  assassins,  still  seeing  him  gHe  signs  of  life,  rushed  after 
him,  fractured  his  skull  by  blows  of  a pistol,  and  left  him  on  a 
dunghill  dead.  There  Laffan’s  bod3'  la)'  for  sevei'al  hours,  and 
nobody  dared  to  touch  it.  Laffan’s  widow  found  the  bod3’  there 
two  hours  after  the  murder,  and  an  inquest  was  held  on  the  body 
as  it  lay  on  the  dunghill.  Laffan  was  driver  on  the  lands  of  Kil- 
uertin,  which  were  formerly  held  b3'  Pat  Cummins,  the  man  ivlu 


14 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


had  the  charge  of  the  lands  before  Laffan  was  murdered  ; the  lat- 
ter was  dragged  out  of  Cummins’s  house  in  the  presence  of  a 
witness  who  refused  to  swear  to  the  murderers,  and  was  shot 
in  sight  of  another  witness,  James  Meara,  who  with  other  men 
was  on  the  road : when  asked  whether  he  cried  out,  or  whether 
he  went  to  assist  the  deceased,  Meara  answers,  “ Indeed  I did 
not ; ice  would  not  interfere  — it  was  no  husmess  of  ours  ! ” 

Six  more  instances  are  given  of  attempts  to  murder ; on 
which  the  judge,  in  passing  sentence,  comments  in  the  following 
way  : — 

“ The  Lord  Chief  Justice  addressed  the  several  persons,  and 
said  — It  was  now  his  painful  duty  to  pronounce  upon  them 
severally  and  respectively  the  punishment  which  the  law  and 
the  court  awarded  against  them  for  the  crimes  of  which  they 
had  been  convicted.  Those  crimes  were  one  and  all  of  them 
of  no  ordinaiy  enormity  — they  were  crimes  which,  in  point  of 
morals,  involved  the  atrocious  guilt  of  murder ; and  if  it  had 
pleased  God  to  spare  their  souls  from  the  pollution  of  that 
olfence,  the  court  could  not  still  shut  its  eyes  to  the  fact,  that 
although  death  had  not  ensued  in  consequence  of  the  crimes  of 
which  they  had  been  found  guilty,  yet  it  was  not  owing  to  their 
forbearance  that  such  a dreadful  crime  had  not  been  perpetrated. 
The  prisoner,  Michael  Hughes,  hkd  beeu  convicted  of  firing  a 
gun  at  a })erson  of  the  name  of  John  Evan  (Luke)  ; his  horse 
had  l)een  killed,  and  no  one  could  say  that  the  balls  were  not 
intended  for  the  prosecutor  himself.  The  prisoner  had  fired 
one  shot  himself,  and  then  called  on  his  companion  in  guilt  to 
discharge  another.  One  of  these  shots  killed  Eyan’s  mare,  and 
it  was  by  the  mercy  of  God  that  the  life  of  the  prisoner  had 
not  beconie  forfeited  1)V  his  own  act.  The  next  culprit  was 
John  Eound,  wlio  was  equally  guilty  of  the  intended  outrage 
per[)etrated  on  tlie  life  of  an  unotfending  individual  — that  indb 
vidiial  a female,  surrounded  by  her  little  children,  five  or  six  in 
number  — with  a complete  carelessness  to  the  i)robable  conse- 
quences, while  she  and  her  family  were  going,  or  had  gone,  to  bed. 
The  contents  of  a gun  were  discharged  through  the  door,  which 
entered  the  i)anel  in  three  dilferent  places.  The  deaths  resulting 
from  this  act  might  have  been  extensive,  but  it  was  not  a mat- 
ter of  any  moment  how  many  were  deprived  of  life.  The 
woman  had  just  risen  Irom  her  prayers,  preparing  herself  to 
sleep  under  the  protection  of  that  arm  which  would  shield  the 
child  and  protect  the  innocent,  when  she  was  wounded.  As  to 
Cornelius  Flynu  and  Patrick  Dwyer,  they  likewise  vare  the 
fiubjects  of  similnr  imputations  nnd  similar  observatiqus.  There 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


15 


was  a veiy  slight  differeiico  betwecMi  them,  but  not  such  as  to 
amount  to  ain^  real  distinction.  They  had  gone  upon  a com- 
mon, illegal  purpose,  to  the  house  of  a i-espectablc  individual, 
for  tlie  purpose  of  interfering  with  the  domestic  arrangements 
he  thought  tit  to  make.  They  had  no  sort  of  right  to  interfere 
with  the  dis[)Osition  of  a man’s  atlairs  ; and  what  would  be  the 
consequences  if  the  reverse  were  to  i)e  held?  No  imputation 
had  cA’cr  been  made  upon  tlie  gentleman  whose  house  was  vis- 
ited, but  he  Avas  desired  to  dismiss  another,  under  the  pains 
and  penalties  of  death,  although  that  other  Avas  not  a retained 
seiwant,  lait  a friend  who  had  come  to  Mr.  Hogan  on  a visit. 
Because  this  visitor  used  sometimes  to  inspect  the  men  at  work, 
tlie  lawless  edict  issued  that  he  should  be  put  aAvay.  Good 
God  ! to  Avliat  extent  did  the  prisoners  and  such  misguided  men 
intend  to  carry  out  their  objects?  IVhei’e  Avas  tlieir  dictation 
to  cease?  are  they,  and  those  in  a similar  rank,  to  take  upon 
tluMiiselves  to  regulate  how  many  and  what  men  a farmer  should 
take  into  his  em[)lovment?  Were  they  to  be  the  judges  Avhether 
a servant  had  discliarged  his  duty  to  his  [irincipal?  or  was  it 
because  a visitor  ha[)pened  to  come,  that  the  host  should  turn 
him  aAvay,  under  the  pains  and  penalties  of  death?  His  lord- 
ship,  after  adverting  to  the  guilt  of  the  prisoners  in  this  case  — 
the  last  tAvo  persons  convicted,  Thos.  Stapleton  and  Thos. 
Gleeson  — said  their  case  Avas  so  recently  before  the  public, 
that  it  was  sullicieiit  to  say  they  were  morally  guilt}"  of  Avhat 
might  be  cousitlered  Avilful  and  deliberate  murder.  Murder 
was  most  aAvful,  because  it  could  only  be  suggested  by  delib- 
erate malice,  and  the  act  of  the  prisoners  Avas  the  result  of 
that  base,  malicious,  and  diabolical  disposition.  What  Avas  the 
cause  of  resentment  against  the  unfortunate  man  who  had  been 
shot  at,  and  so  desperately  Avounded?  Why,  he  had  dared  to 
comply  with  the  wishes  of  a just  landlord  ; and  because  the 
landlord,  for  the  benefit  of  his  tenantry,  proposed  that  the  farms 
should  be  squared,  those  who  acquiesced  iu  his  wishes  were  to 
be  equally  the  victims  of  the  assassin.  VvTiat  were  the  facts 
in  this  case  ? The  tAvo  prisoners  at  the  bar,  Stapleton  and  Glee- 
son,  sprung  out  at  the  man  as  he  was  leaving  work,  placed  him 
on  his  knees,  and  Avithout  giving  him  a moment  of  preparation, 
commenced  the  work  of  blood,  intending  deliberately  to  de- 
spatch that  unprepared  and  unoffending  individual  to  eternity. 
What  country  Avas  it  that  they  lived  in,  in  which  such  crimes 
could  be  perpetrated  in  the  open  light  of  day  ? It  was  not  nec- 
essary that  deeds  of  darkness  should  be  shrouded  in  the  clouds 
of  night,  for  the  darkness  of  the  deeds  themselves  was  consid- 


16 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


ered  a sufficient  protection.  He  (the  Chief  Justice)  was  not 
aware  of  any  solitaiy  instance  at  the  present  commission,  to 
show  that  the  crimes  committed  were  the  consequences  of  pov- 
erty. Poverty  should  be  no  justification,  hovv^ever ; it  might 
be  some  little  palliation,  but  on  no  trial  at  this  commission  did 
it  appear  that  the  crime  could  be  attributed  to  distress.  His 
lordship  concluded  a most  impressive  address,  by  sentencing 
the  six  prisoners  called  up,  to  transportation  for  lilh. 

The  clock  was  near  midnight  as  the  court  was  cleared, 
and  the  whole  of  the  proceedings  were  solemn  and  impressive 
in  the  extreme.  The  commission  is  hkely  to  prove  extremel}^ 
benelicial  in  its  results  on  the  future  tranquillit}’  of  the  coun- 
try.” 

1 confess,  for  ni}’  part,  to  that  common  cant  and  sickl}?^ 
sentimentality,  which,  thank  God  ! is  felt  by  a great  number 
of  people  now-a-days,  and  which  leads  them  to  revolt  against 
murder,  whether  performed  liy  aTuffian’s  knife  or  a hangman’s 
ro[)e  : whether  accompanied  with  a curse  from  the  thief  as  he 
blows  his  victim’s  brains  out,  oi-  a prayer  from  my  lord  on  the 
bench  in  his  wig  and  black  ca[).  Nay,  is  all  the  cant  and  sickl}" 
sentimentalit}'  on  our  side,  and  might  not  some  such  charge  be 
ap[)li(‘(l  to  the  admirers  of  the  good  old  fashion?  Long  ere  this 
is  [)rinted,  for  instance,  Byrne  and  Woods  have  been  hanged  : * 
sent  to  face  their  God,”  as  the  Chief  .Justice  says,  “ with  the 
wi'ight  of  their  victim’s  blood  upon  them,”  — a just  observation  ; 
and  remember  that  it  is  we  who  send  them.  It  is  true  that  the 
judge  hopes  Heaven  will  have  im'rcy  upon  their  souls;  but  are 
such  i-ecommendations  of  i)artieular  weight  because  the}’  come 
(Vom  the  l)ench?  Psha ! If  we  go  on  killing  peo[)le  without 
giving  them  time  to  rei)ent,  let  us  at  least  give  up  the  cant  of 
praying  for  their  souls’  salvation.  We  find  a man  drowning  in 
a well,  shut  the  lid  upon  him,  and  heartily  pray  that  he  may  get 
out.  Sin  has  hold  of  him,  as  th(‘  two  ruffians  of  Lahan  yonder, 
and  we  stand  aloof,  and  hope  that  he  nia}’  escape.  Let  us  give 
u[)  this  ceremony  of  condolence,  and  be  honest,  like  the  wit- 
ness, and  say,  “ Let  him  save  himself  or  not,  it’s  no  business 
of  ours.”  ....  Here  a waiter,  with  a very  broad,  though  insin- 
uating accent  says,  “Have  you  done  with  the  Sandthers,  sir! 
there’s  a gentleman  waiting  for’t  these  two  hours.”  And  so 

* The  two  men  were  execntcd  pursuant  to  sentence,  and  both  persisted 
solemnly  in  dcnyini?  their  guilt.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it  ; but  it 
appears  to  be  a point  of  honor  with  these  unhapjw  men  to  make  no  state- 
ment which  may  incriminate  the  witnesses  who  appeared  on  their  behalf, 
and  on  their  part  perjured  themselves  equally 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


17 


he  carries  off  that  sti-aiige  i)ictiire  of  [)leasiire  and  pain,  trade, 
theatres,  schools,  courts,  churches,  life  and  death,  in  Ireland, 
M hich  a man  nni}'  buy  for  a fourpcnny-picce. 


The  })apcrs  being  read,  it  lu'caine  iny  dut}’  to  discover  the 
tovvn  ; and  a handsomer  town,  with  fewer  pe<)i>le  in  it,  it  is 
impossil)le  to  see  on  a sumuu'r’s  day.  In  tlu‘  Avhole  wide  S([uare 
(>r  Ste[)hen’s  Green,  1 lliink  there  were  not  more  than  two  nurs- 
ery-maids to  kec[)  com[)any  with  the  statiu;  of  George  J.,  who 
rides  on  horseback  in  the  middle  ol‘  the  gaixlen,  the  horse  liaving 
liis  loot  up  to  trot,  as  if  he  wanted  to  go  out  of  town  too.  Small 
troo[)s  oCtlirty  ehildi’en  (too  poor  and  dii  ty  to  have  lodgings  at 
Kingstown)  were  s<iuatting  here  and  theiv  upon  the  sunshiii}" 
ste[)s,  the  only  clients  at  the  tlu'esholds  of  the  i)i'ofessional 
gentlemen  whose  names  ligure  on  bi-ass-i)lates  on  the  doors. 
A stand -of  lazy  carmen,  a policeman  or  two  with  clinking  boot- 
heels,  a couple  ol'  moaning  bt'ggai's  leaning  against  the  rails 
and  calling  u[)on  the  Lord,  and  a fellow  with  a tov  and  book 
stall,  where  the  lives  of  St.  I'atriek,  Robert  Emmett,  and  Lord 
Edward  Eitzgerald  may  be  bought  for  double  their  value,  were 
, all  the  po[)ulation  of  tlu'  Gi-een. 

At  the  door  of  the  Kildare  vStreet  Club,  I saw'  eight  gentle- 
men looking  at  two  boys  plaviiig  at  lea[)frog  ; at  the  door  of 
the  I 'iii\a'rsily  six  laz}'  porters,  in  jockey-ea})s,  were  sunning 
thems('Jves  on  a bench  — a sort  of  blue-bottle  race;  and  the 
Bank  on  the  oi)posite  side  did  not  look  as  il‘  sixi)ence-wan-th  of 
change  had  l)een  negotiated  there  during  the  day.  There  W’as 
a lad  pretending  to  sell  umbrellas  under  the  colonnade,  almost 
the  only  instance  of  trade  going  on  ; and  I began  to  think  of 
Juan  Fernandez,  or  Cambiidge  in  the  long  A'aeation.  In  the 
courts  of  the  College,  scarce  the  ghost  of  a gyp  or  the  shadow 
of  a bed-maker. 

In  spite  of  the  solitude,  the  square  of  the  College  is  a fine 
sight : a large  ground,  surrounded  by  buildings  of  various  ages 
and  styles,  but  comfortable,  handsome,  and  in  good  repair ; a 
modern  row'  of  rooms  ; a row  that  has  been  Elizabethan  once  ; 
a hall  and  senate-house,  facing  each  other,  of  the  style  of 
George  I.  ; and  a noble  library,  with  a range  of  many  windows, 
and  a fine  manly,  simple  fagade  of  cut  stone.  The  library  w'as 
shut.  The  librarian,  I suppose,  is  at  the  seaside  ; and  the  only 
part  of  the  establishment  which  I could  see  was  the  museum, 
to  which  one  of  the  jockey-capped  porters  conducted  me,  up  a 


18 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


wide,  dismal  staircase,  (adorned  with  an  old  pair  of  jack-boots, 
a dusty  canoe  or  two,  a few  helmets,  and  a South  Sea  Islander’s 
armor,)  which  passes  through  a hall  hung  round  with  cobwebs 
(with  which  the  blue-bottles  are  too  wise  to  meddle),  into  an 
old  mould}-  room,  filled  with  dingy  glass-cases,  under  which  the 
articles  of  curiosity  or  science  were  partially  visible.  In  the 
middle  was  a very  seedy  camelopard  (tlie  w’ord  has  grown  to  be 
English  by  this  time),  the  straw  splitting  through  his  tight  old 
skin  and  the  black  cobblor’s-wax  stuffing  the  dim  orifices  of  his 
eyes.  Other  beasts  formed  a pleasing  group  around  him,  not 
so  tall,  but  equally  mouldy  and  old.  The  porter  took  me  round 
to  the  cases,  and  told  me  a great  number  of  fil)s  concerning 
their  contents  : there  was  the  harp  of  Brian  Boron,  and  the 
sword  of  some  one  else,  and  other  cheap  old  gimcracks  with 
their  corollary  of  lies.  The  place  would  have  been  a disgrace 
to  Don  Saltero.  I was  quite  glad  to  walk  out  of  it,  and  down 
the  dirty  staircase  again  : about  the  ornaments  of  which  the 
jockey-capped  gyp  had  more  figments  to  tell ; an  atrocious  one 
(I  forget  what)  relative  to  the  pair  of  boots;  near  which  — 
a line  specimen  of  collegiate  taste  — were  the  shoes  of  Mr. 
O’Brien,  the  Irish  giant.  If  the  collection  is  worth  preserving, 
— and  indeed  the  mineralogical  s[)ccimeus  look  quite  as  awful 
as  those  in  the  British  Museum,  — one  thing  is  clear,  that  the 
rooms  are  worth  swee})ing.  A pail  of  water  costs  nothing,  a 
scml)l)ing-brush  not  much,  and  a charwoman  might  be  hired  for 
a trille,  to  keep  the  room  in  a decent  state  of  cleanliness. 

Among  the  curiosities  is  a mask  of  the  Dean  — not  the 
scoffer  and  giber,  not  the  liery  politician,  nor  the  courtier  of 
St.  John  and  Harley,  equally  ready  with  servility  and  scorn; 
but  the  poor  old  man,  whose  great  intellect  had  deserted  him, 
and  who  died  old,  wild,  and  sad.  The  tall  forehead  is  fallen 
away  in  a ruin,  the  mouth  has  settled  in  a hideous,  vacant 
smile.  Well,  it  was  a mercy  for  Stella  that  she  died  first:  it 
was  better  that  she  should  be  killed  by  his  unkindness  than  by 
the  sight  of  his  misery  ; which,  to  such  a gentle  heart  as  that, 
would  have  been  harder  still  to  bear. 

The  Bank,  and  other  public  buildings  of  Dublin,  are  justly 
famous.  In  the  forimu’  may  still  be  seen  the  room  which  was 
the  House  of  Lords  formerly,  and  where  the  Bank  directors  now 
sit,  under  a clean  marble  image  of  George  III.  The  House  of 
Commons  has  disappeared,  for  the  accommodation  of  clerks  and 
cashiers.  The  interior  is  light,  S})lendid,  airy,  well-furnished, 
and  the  outside  of  the  building  not  less  so.  The  Exchange, 
hard  by,  is  an  equally  magnificent  structure  ; but  the  genius  of 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


19 


commerce  has  deserted  it,  for  all  its  architectural  beauty.  There 
was  nobody  inside  when  1 entered  but  a }>ert  statue  of  George 
HI.  in  a Roman  toga,  simpering  and  turning  out  his  toes  ; and 
two  dirty  children  playing,  whose  hoo[)-sticks  caused  great  clat- 
tering echoes  under  the  A acant  sounding  dome.  The  neighbor- 
hood is  not  cheeriid,  and  has  a dingy,  [)overty-stricken  look. 

Walking  towards  the  river,  you  have  on  either  side  of  you, 
at  Carlisle  Bridge,  a very  brilliant  and  beautiful  })rospect : the 
Four  Courts  and  their  dome  to  the  leil,  the  Custom  House  and 
its  dome  to  the  right;  and  in  this  direction  seaward,  a con- 
siderable number  of  vessels  are  moored,  and  the  (iua3’S  are 
black  and  busA'  Avith  the  cargoes  discharged  from  ships.  Sea- 
men cheering,  herring-Avomen  bawling,  coal-carts  loading  — the 
scene  is  animated  and  lively.  Yonder  is  the  famous  Corn 
Exchange  ; l)ut  the  Lord  iMavor  is  attending  to  his  duties  in 
Rarliament,  and  little  of  note  is  going  on.  1 had  just  passed 
his  lordship’s  mansion  in  Dawson  Street,  — a (pieer  old  dirty 
])rick  house,  with  dumpy  urns  at  each  extremit}',  and  looking  as 
if  a storv  of  it  had  been  cut  olf — a rasee-house.  Close  at 
hand,  and  peering  over  a paling,  is  a statue  of  our  blessed 
sovereign  George  H.  How  absurd  these  pompous  images  look, 
of  defunct  majesties,  for  Avhom  no  breathing  soul  cares  a half* 
penn^G  It  is  not  so  Avith  the  elilgA'  of  William  HI.,  avIio  has 
done  something  to  merit  a statue.  At  this  minute  the  Lord 
IMayor  has  William’s  efiigA'  under  a canvas,  and  is  painting  him 
of  a bright  green,  picked  out  with  yellow  — his  lordship’s  own 
livery. 

The  view  along  the  quays  to  the  Four  Courts  has  no  small 
resemblance  to  a view  along  the  quaj’s  at  Paris,  though  not  so 
livelj^  as  are  even  those  quiet  Avalks.  The  Amssels  do  not  come 
aboA^e-bridge,  and  the  marine  population  remains  constant  about 
them,  and  about  numerous  dirt}’  liquor-shops,  eating-houses,  and 
marine-store  establishments,  wdiicli  are  kept  for  their  accom- 
modation along  the  quay.  As  far  as  you  can  see,  the  shining 
Liffey  flows  aAvay  eastward,  hastening  (like  the  rest  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Dublin)  to  the  sea. 

In  front  of  Carlisle  Bridge,  and  not  in  the  least  crowded, 
though  in  the  midst  of  Sackville  Street,  stands  Nelson  upon  a 
stone  pillar.  The  Post  Office  is  on  his  right  hand  (only  it  is 
cut  off);  and  on  his  left,  ‘■^Gresham’s”  and  the  “Imperial 
Hotel.”  Of  the  latter  let  me  say  (from  subsequent  experience) 
that  it  is  ornamented  by  a cook  who  could  dress  a cbnner  by  the 
side  of  M.  Borel  or  M.  Soyer.  Would  there  were  more  such 
artists  in  this  ilbfated  countiT  I The  street  is  exceedingly 


20 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


broad  and  handsome  ; the  shops  at  the  commencement,  rich 
and  spacious  ; but  in  Upper  Sackville  Street,  which  closes  with 
the  pretty  building  and  gardens  of  the  Rotunda,  the  appearance 
of  wealth  begins  to  fade  somewhat,  and  the  houses  look  as  if 
they  had  seen  better  da^’s.  Evmn  in  this,  the  great  street  of 
the  town,  there  is  scarcely  any  one,  and  it  is  as  vacant  and 
listless  as  Pall  Mall  in  October.  In  one  of  the  streets  off  Sack- 
ville  Street,  is  the  house  and  exhibition  of  the  Irish  Acadeni}’, 
which  I went  to  see,  as  it  was  positively  to  close  at  the  end  of 
the  week.  While  1 was  there,  two  other  people  came  in  ; and 
we  had,  besides,  the  mone3^-taker  and  a porter,  to  whom  the 
former  was  reading,  out  of  a newspaper,  those  Tipperaiy  mur- 
ders which  were  mentioned  in  a former  page.  The  echo  took 
up  the  theme,  and  hummed  it  gloomily  through  the  vacant 
place. 

The  drawings  and  reputation  of  Mr.  Burton  are  well  known 
in  England  : his  pieces  were  the  most  tidmired  in  the  collection. 
The  best  draughtsman  is  an  imitator  of  Maclise,  Mr.  Bridgeman, 
whose  })ictures  are  full  of  vigorous  drawing,  and  remarkable 
too  for  their  grace.  I gave  my  catalogue  to  the  two  3'oung  ladies 
before  11^11^0110(1,1111(1  have  forgotten  the  names  of  other  artists 
of  merit,  wliose  works  decked  the  walls  of  the  little  galleiy. 
Here,  as  in  London,  the  Art  Union  is  making  a stir;  and 
several  of  the  pieces  Avere  marked  as  the  property  of  members 
of  that  body.  The  [lossession  of  some  of  these  one  would  not  be 
iiiclined  to  covet ; hut  it  is  pleasant  to  see  that  people  begin  to 
buy  [lictures  at  all,  and  there  will  be  no  lack  of  artists  presently, 
in  a country  where  nature  is  so  beautiful,  and  genius  so  plenty. 
In  speaking  of  the  line  arts  and  of  views  of  Dublin,  it  may  be 
said  that  Mr.  Petrie’s  designs  for  Curry’s  Guide-book  of  the 
City  are  exceedingly  beautiful,  and,  above  all,  trustworthy : no 
common  (luality  in  a descriptive  artist  at  present. 

Having  a couple  of  letters  of  introduction  to  leave,  I had  the 
pleasure  to  find  the  blinds  down  at  one  house,  and  the  window 
in  pa[)ers  at  another  ; and  at  each  place  the  knock  was  answered 
in  that  leisurely  way,  by  one  of  those  dingy  female  lieutenants 
who  have  no  need  to  tell  you  that  families  are  out  of  town.  So 
the  solitude  became  very  painful,  and  I thought  I would  go 
back  and  talk  to  the  waiter  at  the  Shelburne,”  the  only  man 
in  the  whole  kingdom  that  I knew.  I had  been  accommodated 
Avith  a queer  little  room,  and  dressing-room  on  the  ground-floor, 
looking  toAvards  the  Green  : a black-faced,  good-humored  cham- 
ber-maid had  iiromiscd  to  perform  a deal  of  scouring  which  Avas 
evidently  necessary,  (a  fact  she  might  have  observed  for  six 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


21 


months  back,  only  she  is  no  doubt  of  an  absent  turn,)  and 
when  I came  back  from  the  walk,  I saw  the  little  room  was 
evidently  enjoying  itself  in  the  sunshine,  for  it  had  opened  its 
wdndow,  and  was  taking  a breath  of  fresh  air,  as  it  looked  out 
upon  the  Green. 

As  I came  up  to  it  in  the  street,  its  appearance  made  me 
burst  out  laughing,  veiy  much  to  the  surprise  of  a ragged 
cluster  of  idlers  lolling  upon  the  steps  next  door ; and  I have 
drawn  it  here,  not  because  it  is  a particularly  picturesque  or 
rare  kind  of  window,  but  because,  as  1 fancy,  there  is  a sort  of 
moved  in  it.*  You  don’t  see  such  windows  commonly  in  respect- 
able English  inns — windows  leaning  gracefully  upon  hearth- 
brooms  for  support.  Look  out  of  that  window  without  the 
hearth-broom  and  it  would  cut  your  head  off : how  the  beggars 
w'ould  start  that  are  always  sitting  on  the  steps  next  door ! Is 
it  prejudice  that  makes  one  prefer  the  English  window,  that 
relies  on  its  own  ropes  and  ballast  (or  lead  if  you  like),  and 
does  not  need  to  be  propped  b}'  any  foreign  aid  ? or  is  this  only 
a solitary  instance  of  the  kind,  and  are  there  no  other  specimens 
in  Ireland  of  the  careless,  dangerous,  extravagant  hearth-broom 
S3"stem  ? 

In  the  midst  of  these  reflections  (wfliich  might  have  been 
carried  much  farther,  for  a person  with  an  allegorical  turn 
might  examine  the  entire  countiy  through  this  wdndow) , a most 
wonderful  cab,  with  an  immense  prancing  cab-horse,  was  seen 
to  stop  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  and  Pat  the  waiter  tumbling 
into  the  room  swiftl}'  with  a card  in  his  hand,  says,  “ Sir,  the 
gentleman  of  this  card  is  waiting  for  }^ou  at  the  door.”  Mon 
Dieu  I it  was  an  invitation  to  dinner ! and  I almost  leapt  into 
the  arms  of  the  man  in  the  cab  — so  delightful  was  it  to  And  a 
friend  in  a place  where,  a moment  before,  I had  been  as  lonely 
as  Robinson  Crusoe. 

The  onty  drawback,  perhaps,  to  pure  happiness,  when  riding 
in  such  a gorgeous  equipage  as  this,  was  that  w'e  could  not  drive 
up  Regent  Street,  and  meet  a few  creditors,  or  acquaintances 
at  least.  However,  Pat,  I thought,  was  exceedingly  awe- 
stricken by  my  disappearance  in  this  vehicle  ; which  had  evi- 
dently, too,  a considerable  effect  upon  some  other  waiters  at 
the  “ Shelburne,”  with  whom  I w^as  not  as  yet  so  familiar.  The 
mouldy  camelopard  at  the  Trinity  College  “Musayum”  was 
scarcely  taller  than  the  ba3^-horse  in  the  cab ; the  groom  behind 
was  of  a corresponding  smallness.  The  cab  was  of  a lovely 
olive-green,  picked  out  with  white,  high  on  high  springs  and 

* This  refers  to  an  illustrated  edition  of  the  work. 


22 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


enormous  wheels,  which,  big  as  they  were,  scarce^  seemed  to 
touch  the  earth.  The  little  tiger  swung  gracefully  up  and 
down,  holding  on  the  hood,  which  was  of  the  material  of 
which  the  most  precious  and  polished  boots  are  made.  As  for 
the  lining  — but  here  we  come  too  near  the  sanctity  of  private 
life  ; sullice  that  there  w^as  a kind  friend  inside,  who  (though  by 
no  means  of  the  fairy  sort)  was  as  welcome  as  any  faiiy  in  the 

finest  chariot.  W had  seen  me  landing  from  the  packet 

that  morning,  and  was  the  veiy  man  who  in  London,  a month 
previous,  had  recommended  me  to  the  “ Shelburne.”  These 
facts  are  not  of  much  consequence  to  the  public,  to  be  sure, 
except  that  an  explanation  was  necessary  of  the  miraculous  ap- 
pearance of  the  cab  and  horse. 

Our  course,  as  may  be  imagined,  w'as  towards  the  seaside  j 
for  whither  else  should  an  Irishman  at  this  season  go?  Not  far 
from  Kingstown  is  a house  devoted  to  the  purpose  of  festivity : 
it  is  called  Salt  Hill,  stands  upon  a rising  ground,  commanding 
a fine  view  of  the  ba}'  and  the  railroad,  and  is  kept  by  persons 
bearing  the  celebrated  name  of  Lovegrove.  It  is  in  fact  a sea- 
Greenwich,  and  though  there  are  no  marine  whitebait,  other 
fishes  are  to  be  had  in  plenty,  and  especially  the  famous  Bray 
trout,  which  docs  not  ill  deserve  its  reputation. 

Here  we  met  three  young  men,  who  may  be  called  by  the 
names  of  their  several  counties  — Mr.  Galwa}q  Mr.  Roscom- 
mon, and  Mr.  Clare  ; and  it  seemed  that  I was  to  complain  of 
solitude  no  longer  : for  one  straightway  invited  me  to  his  county, 
wliere  wms  the  finest  salmon-fishing  in  the  world  ; another  said 
he  would  drive  me  through  the  county  Kerry  in  his  four-in-hand 
drag ; and  the  third  had  some  propositions  of  sport  equall}^ 
hos[)i table.  As  for  going  down  to  some  races,  on  the  Curragh 
of  Kildare  I think,  which  w'cre  to  be  held  on  the  next  and  the 
three  followung  days,  there  seemed  to  be  no  question  about  that. 
Tliat  a man  should  miss  a race  within  forty  miles,  seemed  to  be 
a point  never  contenqilated  by  these  jovial  sporting  fellows. 

Strolling  about  in  the  neighborhood  before  dinner,  we  went 
down  to  the  sea-shore,  and  to  some  caves  which  had  lately  been 
discovered  there  : and  two  Irish  ladies,  who  were  standing  at 
the  entrance  of  one  of  them,  permitted  me  to  take  the  following 
portraits,  which  were  pronounced  to  be  prettj'  accurate. 

They  said  they  had  not  acquiesced  in  the  general  Temper- 
ance movement  that  had  taken  place  throughout  the  country ; 
and,  indeed,  if  the  truth  must  be  known,  it  was  only  under 
promise  of  a glass  of  whiskey  apiece  that  their  modesty  could 
be  so  far  overcome  as  to  permit  them  to  sit  for  their  portraits. 


“Two  Irish  Ladies.” 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


23 


By  the  time  tlie}^  were  done,  a crowd  of  both  sexes  had  gathered 
round,  and  expressed  theinselv^es  quite  ready  to  sit  upon  the 
same  terms.  But  though  there  was  great  variety  in  their  coun- 
tenances, there  was  not  much  beauty  ; and  besides,  dinner  was 
b}'  this  time  read^q  which  has  at  certain  periods  a charm  even 
greater  than  art. 

The  bay,  which  had  been  veiled  in  mist  and  gra}'  in  the 
morning,  was  now  shining  under  the  most  beautiful  clear  sky, 
which  presentlv  became  rich  with  a thousand  gorgeous  hues  of 
sunset.  The  view  was  as  smiling  and  delightful  a one  as  can 
be  conceived, — just  such  a one  as  should  be  seen  a travers  a 
good  dinner  ; witli  no  fatiguing  sublimity  or  awl'ul  beauty  in  it, 
but  brisk,  brilliant,  sunny,  enlivening.  In  fact,  in  placing  his 
banqueting-house  here,  i\lr.  i.ovegTO\  e had,  as  usual,  a brilliant 
idea.  You  must  not  have  too  much  view,  or  a severe  one,  to 
give  a relish  to  a good  dinner;  nor  too  much  music,  nor  too 
quick,  nor  too  slow,  nor  too  loud.  Any  reader  who  has  dined 
at  a tahle-d' hole  in  Germany  will  know  the  annoyance  of  this  : a 
set  of  musicians  immediately  at  your  back  will  sometimes  play 
3’ou  a melancholy  polonaise  ; and  a man  with  a good  ear  must 
perforce  eat  in  time,  and  your  soup  is  quite  cold  before  it  is 
swallowed.  Then,  all  of  a sudden,  crash  goes  a brisk  gallop  ! 
and  3'ou  are  obliged  to  gulp  3 0111*  *s’ictuals  at  the  rate  of  ten 
miles  an  hour.  And  in  respect  of  conversation  during  a good 
dinner,  the  same  rules  of  propriet3’  should  be  consulted.  Deep 
and  sublime  talk  is  as  improper  as  sublime  prospects.  Dante 
and  champagne  (I  was  going  to  sa3' IMilton  and  03’sters,  but 
that  is  a pun)  are  quite  unlit  themes  of  dinner-talk.  Let  it 
be  light,  brisk,  not  oppressive  to  the  brain.  Our  conversation 
was,  I recollect,  just  the  thing.  We  talked  about  the  last 
Derb3’  the  whole  time,  and  the  state  of  the  odds  for  the  St. 
Leger  ; nor  was  the  Ascot  Cup  forgotten  ; and  a bet  or  two  was 
gayly  booked. 

Meanwhile  the  sk3q  which  had  been  blue  and  then  red,  as- 
sumed, towards  the  horizon,  as  the  red  was  sinking  under  it, 
a gentle,  delicate  cast  of  green.  Howth  Hill  became  of  a 
darker  purple,  and  the  sails  of  the  boats  rather  dim.  The  sea 
grew  deeper  and  deeper  in  color.  The  lamps  at  the  railroad 
dotted  the  line  with  fire  ; and  the  light-houses  of  the  bay  began 
to  flame.  The  trains  to  and  from  the  cit3^  rushed  flashing  and 
hissing  by.  In  a word,  everybod3^  said  it  was  time  to  light  a 
cigar ; which  was  done,  the  conversation  about  the  Derby  still 
continuing. 

Put  out  that  candle,”  said  Roscommon  to  Clare,  This  the 


24 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK.  * 


latter  instantly  did  by  flinging  the  taper  out  of  the  window  upon 
the  lawn,  which  is  a thoroughfare  ; and  where  a great  laugh 
arose  among  half  a score  of  beggar-bo^^s,  who  had  been  under 
the  window  for  some  time  past,  repeatedly  requesting  the  com- 
pany to  throw  out  sixpence  between  them. 

Two  other  sporting  young  fellows  had  now  joined  the  corn- 
pan}'  ; and  as  by  this  time  claret  began  to  have  rather  a mawk- 
ish taste,  whiskey-and- water  was  ordered,  which  was  drunk 
upon  the  perron  before  the  house,  whither  the  whole  part}'  ad- 
journed, and  where  for  many  hours  we  delightfully  tossed  for 
sixpences  — a noble  and  fascinating  sport.  Nor  would  these 
remarkable  events  have  been  narrated,  had  I not  received  ex- 
press permission  from  the  gentlemen  of  the  party  to  record  all 
that  was  said  and  done.  Who  knows  but,  a thousand  years 
hence,  some  antiquary  or  historian  may  find  a moral  in  this 
description  of  the  amusement  of  the  British  youth  at  the  present 
enlightened  time  ? 

HOT  LOBSTER. 

P.S.  — You  take  a lobster,  about  three  feet  long  if  possible, 
remove  llie  shell,  cut  or  break  the  flesh  of  the  fish  in  pieces  not 
too  small.  Some  one  else  meanwhile  makes  a mixture  of  mus- 
tard, vinegar,  catsiq),  and  lots  of  cayenne  pepper.  You  pro- 
duce a machine  called  a despatcher^  which  has  a spirit-lamp 
under  it  that  is  usuall}'  illuminated  with  whiskey.  The  lobster, 
the  sauce,  and  near  half  a pound  of  butter  are  placed  in  the  de- 
spatcher,  which  is  immediately  closed.  When  boiling,  the  mix- 
ture is  stirred  up,  the  lobster  being  sure  to  heave  about  in  the 
pan  in  a convulsive  manner,  while  it  emits  a remarkably  rich 
and  agreeable  odor  through  the  a[)artment.  A glass  and  a 
half  of  sherry  is  now  thrown  into  the  pan,  and  the  contents 
served  out  hot,  and  eaten  by  the  company.  Porter  is  com- 
monly drunk,  and  whiskey-punch  afterwards,  and  the  dish  is  tit 
for  an  emperor. 

N.B.  — You  arc  recommended  not  to  hurry  yourself  in  get- 
ting up  the  next  morning,  and  may  take  soda-water  with  ad- 
vantage. — Probatum  Mt, 


THE  UUbil  bKETCil  EOOK. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A COUNTRY-nOUSE  IN  KILDARE  — SKETCHES  OF  AN  IRISH  FAMILY 

AND  FARM. 

It  had  been  settled  among  m3"  friends,  I don’t  know  for 
Mdiat  particular  reason,  that  the  Agricultural  Show  at  Cork  wus 
an  exhibition  1 was  S[)eciall3’  bound  to  see.  When,  therelbrc, 
a gentleman  to  whom  I had  lirought  a letter  of  introduction 
kindly  ottered  me  a seat  in  his  carriage,  which  was  to  travel  by 
short  days’  journeys  to  that  cit}’,  1 took  an  abrupt  farewell  of 
Pat  the  waiter,  and  some  otlier  friends  in  Dublin  : proposing  to 
renew  our  acquaintance,  liowever,  u[)on  some  future  da}'. 

We  started  then  one  line  afternoon  on  the  road  from  Dublin 
to  Naas,  'which  is  the  main  southern  road  from  the  capital  to 
Munster,  and  met,  in  the  course  of  the  ride  of  a score  of  miles, 
a dozen  of  coaches  very  heavil}'  loaded,  and  bringing  passem 
gers  to  the  city.  The  exit  from  Dublin  this  '^va}'  is  not  much 
more  elegant  than  the  outlet  by  'way  of  Kingstown  : for  though 
the  great  branches  of  the  cit}'  appear  llourisliing  enough  as  v'et, 
the  small  outer  ones  are  in  a sad  state  of  deca}'.  Houses  drop 
olf  here  and  there,  and  dwindle  wofulh'in  size  ; v'e  are  got  into 
the  back-premises  of  the  seeniingl}'  prosperous  place,  and  it 
looks  miserable,  careless,  and  deserted.  We  passed  through  a 
street  Avhich  'ums  thriving  once,  but  has  fallen  since  into  a sort 
of  deca}',  to  judge  outwardly,  — St.  Thomas  Street.  Emmett 
was  hanged  in  the  midst  of  it.  And  on  pursuing  the  line  of 
street,  and  crossing  the  Great  Canal,  3"Ou  come  presently  to  a 
fine  tall  square  building  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  which  is 
no  more  nor  less  than  Kilmainham  Gaol,  or  Castle.  Poor 
Emmett  is  the  Irish  darling  still  — his  histoiy  is  on  eveiy  book- 
stall in  the  cit}',  and  3'onder  trim-looking  brick  gaol  a spot 
where  Irishmen  may  go  and  pray.  Man}"  a martyr  of  theirs 
has  appeared  and  died  in  front  of  it,  — found  guilty  of  “ wear- 
ing of  the  green.” 

There  must  be  a fine  view  from  the  gaol  windows,  for  we 
presently  come  to  a great  stretch  of  brilliant  green  country, 
leaving  the  Dublin  hills  lying  to  the  left,  picturesque  in  their 
outline,  and  of  wonderful  color.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  quite  a 
different  color  to  that  in  England  — ditterent-shaped  clouds  — 
different  shadows  and  lights.  The  country  is  well  tilled,  well 


26 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


peopled  ; the  hay-harvest  on  the  ground,  and  the  people  taking 
advantage  of  the  sunshine  to  gather  it  in  ; but  in  spite  of  everv- 
thing,  — green  meadows,  white  villages  and  sunshine,  — the 
place  has  a sort  of  sadness  in  the  look  of  it. 

The  first  town  we  passed,  as  appears  by  reference  to  the  Guide- 
book, is  the  little  town  of  Rathcoole  ; but  in  the  space  of  three 
days  Rathcoole  has  disappeared  from  my  memory,  with  the 
exception  of  a little  low  building  which  the  village  contains,  and 
where  are  the  quarters  of  the  Irish  constabulary.  Nothing  can 
be  finer  than  the  trim,  orderly,  and  soldier-like  appearance  of  this 
splendid  corps  of  men. 

One  has  glimpses  all  along  the  road  of  numerous  gentlemen’s 
places,  looking  extensive  and  prosperous,  of  a few  mills  b}^ 
streams  here  and  there  ; but  though  the  streams  run  still,  the 
mill-wheels  are  idle  for  the  chief  part ; and  the  road  passes 
more  than  one  long  low  village,  looking  bare  and  poor,  but 
neat  and  whitewashed : it  seems  as  if  the  inhabitants  were  de- 
termined to  i)ut  a decent  look  upon  their  povert3\  One  or  two 
villages  there  were  evidently  api)ertainiug  to  gentlemen’s  seats  ; 
these  are  smart  enough,  especially  that  of  Johnstown,  near 
Lord  Mayo’s  line  domain,  where  the  houses  are  of  the  Gothic 
sort,  with  pretty  [)orches,  creepers,  and  railings.  Noble  purple 
hills  to  the  left  and  right  keep  up,  as  it  were,  an  accompaniment 
to  the  road. 

As  for  the  town  of  Naas,  tlie  first  after  Dublin  that  I have 
seen,  what  can  be  said  of  it  but  that  it  looks  poor,  mean,  and 
yet  somehow  cheerful?  There  was  a little  bustle  in  the  small 
shops,  a few  cars  were  jingling  along  the  broadest  street  of  the 
town  — some  sort  of  dandies  and  military  individuals  were 
lolling  about  right  and  left ; and  I saw  a fine  court-house,  where 
the  assizes  of  Kildare  county  are  held. 

But  by  far  the  llnest,  and  I think  the  most  extensive  edifice 
in  Naas,  was  a haystack  in  the  inn-yard,  the  proprietor  of  which 
did  not  fail  to  make  me  remark  its  size  and  splendor.  It  was 
of  such  dimensions  as  to  strike  a cockne}'  with  respect  and 
pleasure  ; and  here  standing  just  as  the  new^  crops  were  coming 
in,  told  a tale  of  opulent  thrift  and  good  husbandry.  Are  there 
man}"  more  such  haystacks,  I w'onder,  in  Ireland?  The  crops 
along  the  road  seemed  healthy,  tliough  rather  light : wLeat  and 
oats  plenty,  and  especially  flourishing ; hay  and  clover  not  so 
good ; and  turnips  (let  the  important  remark  be  taken  at  its 
full  value)  almost  entirely  wanting. 

The  little  towm  as  they  call  it  of  Kilcullen  tumbles  down  a 
hill  and  struggles  up  another  ; the  tw  o being  here  picturesquely 


THE  nirsH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


27 


flividecl  by  the  Eiflyv,  over  which  goes  an  antique  bridge.  It 
boasts,  inoreovei-,  of  a portion  of  an  ab])cy  wall,  and  a piece  of 
round  tower,  both  on  the  hill  suinniit,  and  to  be  seen  (says  the 
Guide-book)  for  many  miles  round.  Here  we  saw  the  first 
public  evidences  of  the  distress  of  the  eountiy.  There  was  no 
trade  in  the  little  place,  and  but  few  people  to  be  seen,  except 
a crowd  ronnd  a meal-shop,  where  meal  is  distributed  once  a 
week  by  the  neighboring  gentry.  There  must  have  been  some 
hundreds  of  [)crsons  waiting  ai)out  the  doors  ; women  for  the 
most  part:  some  of  their  children  were  to  be  I’ound  loitering 
about  the  bridge  much  farther  up  the  street : but  it  was  curious 
to  note,  amongst  these  undeniably  starving  peoi)le,  how  healthy 
their  looks  were.  Going  a little  iarther  we  saw  women  pulling 
weeds  and  nettles  in  the  hedges,  on  which  dismal  sustenance 
the  poor  creatures  live,  having  no  bread,  no  potatoes,  no  work. 
AVell ! these  women  did  not  look  thinner  or  more  unhealthy 
than  many  a well-fed  person.  A company  of  English  lawyers, 
now,  look  more  cadaverous  than  these  starving  creatures. 

Stretching  away  from  Kilcullen  bridge,  for  a couple  of  miles 
or  more,  near  the  line  house  and  plantations  of  the  Latouche 
famil}',  is  to  be  seen  a much  prettier  sight,  I think,  than  the 
finest  park  and  mansion  in  the  world.  This  is  a tract  of  ex- 
cessively green  land,  dotted  over  with  brilliant  white  cottages, 
each  with  its  couple  of  trim  acres  of  garden,  where  you  sec  thick 
potato-ridges  covered  with  blossom,  great  blue  })lots  of  com- 
fortable cabbages  and  such  pleasant  plants  of  the  poor  man’s 
garden.  Two  or  three  years  since,  the  land  was  a marshy 
common,  which  had  never  since  the  days  of  the  Deluge  fed  aiy^ 
being  bigger  than  a snipe,  and  into  which  the  poor  people 
descended,  draining  and  cultivating  and  rescuing  the  marsh 
from  the  water,  and  raising  their  cabins  and  setting  up  their 
little  inclosures  of  two  or  three  acres  upon  the  land  which  they 
had  thus  created.  “ Many  of  ’em  has  passed  months  in  jail 
for  that,”  said  m}^  informant  (a  groom  on  the  liack  seat  of  ny 
host’s  phaeton)  : for  it  appears  that  certain  gentlemen  in  the 
neighborhood  looked  upon  the  titles  of  these  nev/  colonists  with 
some  jealous}^  and  would  have  been  glad  to  depose  them  ; but 
there  were  some  better  philosophers  among  the  surrounding 
gentry,  who  advised  that  instead  of  discouraging  the  settlers  it 
w^ould  be  best  to  help  them ; and  the  consequence  has  been, 
that  there  are  now  two  hundred  flourishing  little  homesteads 
upon  this  rescued  land,  and  as  many  families  in  comfort  and 
plenty. 

Just  at  the  confines  of  this  pretty  rustic  republic,  our  pleas- 


28 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


ant  afternoon’s  drive  ended ; and  I must  begin  this  tour  with 
a monstrous  breach  of  confidence,  b}'  first  describing  what  I 
saw. 

Well,  then,  we  drove  through  a neat  lodge-gate,  with  no 
stone  lions  or  supporters,  but  riding  well  on  its  hinges,  and 
looking  fresh  and  white  ; and  passed  b}'  a lodge,  not  Gothic, 
l)ut  decorated  with  flowers  and  evergreens,  with  clean  windows, 
and  a sound  slate  roof;  and  then  went  over  a trim  road,  through 
a few  acres  of  grass,  adorned  with  plent}'  of  3'oung  firs  and  other 
healthy  trees,  under  which  were  feeding  a dozen  of  fine  cows  or 
more.  The  road  led  up  to  a house,  or  rather  a congregation 
of  rooms,  built  seemingl3'  to  suit  the  owner’s  convenience,  and 
increasing  with  his  increasing  wealth,  or  whim,  or  famil3\ 
This  latter  is  as  plentiful  as  eveiything  else  about  the  place  ; 
and  as  the  arrows  increased,  the  good-natured,  luck3^  father 
has  been  forced  to  multii)ly  the  quivers. 

First  came  out  a young  gentleman,  the  heir  of  the  house, 
who,  after  greeting  his  papa,  began  examining  the  horses  with 
much  interest ; whilst  three  or  four  servants,  quite  neat  and 
well  dressed,  and,  wonderful  to  sav,  without  aiy  talking,  began 
to  occupy  themselves  with  the  carriage,  the  passengers,  and  the 
trunks.  Meanwhile,  the  owner  of  the  house  had  gone  into 
the  hall,  which  is  snugl3'  furnished  as  a morning-room,  and 
wdiere  one,  two,  three  young  ladies  came  in  to  greet  him.  The 
3’oung  ladies  having  concluded  their  embraces  performed  (as  I 
am  bound  to  say  from  experience,  both  in  London  and  Paris) 
some  veiy  appropriate  and  well-finished  curtsies  to  the  strangers 
arriving.  And  these  three  young  persons  were  presently  suc- 
ceeded 1)3"  some  still  younger,  who  came  without  aiy"  curtsies 
at  all;  but,  bounding  and  Jumping,  and  shouting  out  “Papa” 
at  the  top  of  their  voices,  they  fell  forthwith  upon  that  worthy 
gentleman’s  person,  taking  possession  this  of  his  knees,  that 
of  his  arms,  that  of  his  whiskers,  as  fancy  or  taste  might 
dictate. 

“ Are  there  any  more  of  3011?  ” says  he,  with  perfect  good- 
humor ; and,  in  fact,  it  appeared  that  there  were  some  more  in 
the  nursery,  as  w'c  subseciuently  had  occasion  to  see. 

Well,  tliis  large  hai)i)y  family  are  lodgx'd  in  a house  than 
which  a prettier  or  more  comfortable  is  not  to  be  seen  even  in 
England  ; of  the  furniture  of  wdiicli  it  may  be  in  confidence 
said,  that  each  article  is  onlv  made  to  answ^er  one  purpose : — 
thus,  that  chairs  are  never  called  upon  to  exercise  the  versa- 
tility of  their  genius  by  propping  up  w'indow^s  ; that  chests  of 
draw’crs  are  not  obliged  to  move  their  unw'ield3’  persons  in  order 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  ROOK. 


29 


to  act  as  locks  to  doors  ; that  the  windows  are  not  variegated 
by  paper,  or  adorned  with  wafers,  as  in  other  places  which  I 
have  seen  : in  fact,  that  tlie  place  is  just  as  comfortable  as  a 
place  can  be. 

And  if  these  comforts  and  reminiscences  of  three  days’  date 
are  enlarged  upon  at  some  length,  I lie  reason  is  simiil}'  this  : — 
this  is  written  at  what  is  sipiposed  to  be  the  best  inn  at  one  of 
the  best  towns  of  Ireland,  Waterfoi’d.  Dinner  is  just  over;  it 
is  assize-week,  and  the  tabk-d' hole  was  surrounded  for  the  chief 
[lart  by  English  attorneys  — the  cyouneilloi-s  (as  the  liai*  are 
jiertinaciously  called)  dining  u[)  stairs  in  private.  Well,  on 
going  to  the  imblic  room  and  being  aliout  to  lay  down  my  hat 
on  the  sideboard,  1 was  obliged  to  pause  — out  of  regarcl  to  a 
fine  thiek  coat  of  dust  which  had  been  kindly  left  to  gather  for 
some  days  past  I should  think,  and  which  it  seemed  a shame  to 
displace.  Yonder  is  a chair  basking  (juietly  in  the  sunshine  ; 
some  round  object  has  evidently  reposed  14)011  it  (a  hat  or  plate 
probably),  for  3-011  see  a clear  circle  of  black  horsehair  in  the 
middle  of  the  chair,  and  dust  all  round  it.  Not  one  of  those 
dirty  napkins  that  the  four  waiters  carry,  would  wipe  iiway  the 
grime  from  the  chair,  and  take  to  itself  a little  dust  more  ! 
The  [)eople  in  the  room  are  shouting  out  for  the  waiters,  who 
ciT,  Yes,  sir,”  peevishly,  and  don’t  come  ; but  stand  liawling 
and  jangling,  and  calling  each  other  names,  at  the  sideboard. 
The  dinner  is  plentiful  and  nasty  — raw  ducks,  raw-  pease,  on 
a crumpled  tablecloth,  over  which  a w-aiter  has  just  spirted  a 
pint  of  obstreperous  cider.  The  windows  are  open,  to  give 
free  view  of  a crowd  of  old  beggar-w-omen,  and  of  a fel- 
low playing  a cursed  Irish  pipe.  Tresently  this  delectable 
apartment  fills  with  choking  [leat-smoke  ; and  on  asking  what 
is  the  cause  of  this  agreeable  addition  to  the  pleasures  of 
the  place,  you  are  told  that  they  are  lighting  a fire  in  a back- 
room . 

WI13-  should  lighting  a fire  in  a back-room  fill  a whole  enor- 
mous house  wdth  smoke  ? Why-  should  four  waiters  stand  and 
jaiv  and  gesticulate  among  themselves,  instead  of  w'aiting  on 
the  guests?  Why  should  ducks  be  raw,  and  dust  lie  quiet  in 
places  where  a hundred  people  pass  daily?  All  these  points 
make  one  think  very-  regretfully  of  neat,  pleasant,  comfortable, 

prosperous  H tow-n,  where  the  meat  was  cooked,  and  the 

rooms  were  clean,  and  the  servants  didn’t  talk.  Nor  need  it 
be  said  here,  that  it  is  as  cheap  to  have  a house  clean  as  dirty, 
and  that  a raw  leg  of  mutton  costs  exactly-  the  same  sum  as  one 
cult  a pomt.  And  by-  this  moral  earnestly-  hoping  that  all  Ire^ 


30 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


land  may  profit,  let  us  go  back  to  II , and  the  sights  to  b« 

seen  there. 

There  is  no  need  to  particularize  the  chairs  and  tables  any 
farther,  nor  to  say  what  sort  of  conversation  and  claret  we  had ; 
nor  to  set  down  the  dishes  served  at  dinner.  If  an  Irish  gen- 
tleman does  not  give  3’ou  a more  hearty  welcome  than  an 
Englishman,  at  least  he  has  a more  hearty  manner  of  welcom- 
ing 3'OLi ; and  wliile  the  latter  reserves  his  fun  and  humor  (if  he 
possess  those  (qualities)  for  his  particular  friends,  the  former 
is  readv  to  laugh  and  talk  his  best  with  all  the  world,  and  give 
wa3'  entirel3'  to  his  mood.  And  it  would  be  a good  opportunity 
here  for  a man  who  is  clever  at  philosophizing  to  expound 
various  theories  upon  the  modes  of  liospitalit3^  practised  in 
various  parts  of  Europe.  In  a couple  of  hours’  talk,  an  Eng- 
lishman will  give  you  his  notions  on  trade,  politics,  the  crops ; 
the  last  run  with  the  hounds,  or  the  weather : it  requires  a long 
sitting,  and  a bottle  of  wine  at  the  least,  to  induce  him  to  laugh 
cordially,  or  to  speak  unreservedH ; and  if  you  joke  with  him 
before  3011  know  him,  he  will  assuredly  set  3’ou  down  as  a low 
imp(‘rtiuent  fellow.  In  two  hours,  and  over  a pipe,  a German 
will  be  quite  read3'  to  let  loose  the  easy  lloodgates  of  his  senti- 
ment, and  conlide  to  you  many  of  the  secrets  of  his  soft  heart. 
In  two  hours  a Erenchman  will  say  a hundred  and  twent3’  smart, 
witty,  brilliant,  false  things,  and  will  care  for  3'ou  as  much  then 
as  he  would  if  3'ou  saw  him  every  da3'  for  twent3'  years  — that 
is,  not  one  single  straw ; and  in  two  hours  an  Irishman  will 
have  allowed  his  jovial  humor  to  unl)utton,  and  gambolled  and 
frolicked  to  his  heart’s  content.  Which  of  these,  putting  Mon- 
sieur out  of  the  question,  will  stand  b3’  his  friend  with  the  most 
constancv,  and  maintain  his  steady  wish  to  serve  him?  That 
is  a question  which  the  Eiiglis^hman  (and  I think  with  a little 
of  his  ordinarv  cool  assuin[)tioii)  is  disposed  to  decide  in  his 
own  favor ; but  it  is  clear  that  for  a stranger  the  Irish  wa3’S 
are  the  [)leasantest,  for  here  he  is  at  once  made  iiappy  and  at 
home  ; or  at  ease  rather : for  home  is  a strong  word,  and  im- 
[)lies  much  more  than  any  stranger  can  expect,  or  even  desii'e 
to  claim. 

Nothing  could  be  more  delightful  to  witness  than  the  evi- 
dent affection  which  the  diildriMi  and  [)arents  bore  to  one 
another,  and  the  cheerfulness  and  hai)i)iness  of  their  fainil3’- 
parties.  The  father  of  one  lad  went  with  a party  of  his  friends 
and  family  on  a pleasure-party,  in  a handsome  coach-and-four. 
The  little  fellow  sat  on  the  coach-box  and  played  with  the  whip 
very  wistfully  for  some  time : the  sun  was  shining,  the  horses 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


31 


came  out  in  bright  luiriiess,  with  glistening  coats ; one  of  the 
girls  brought  a geraniuni  to  stick  in  papa’s  button-hole,  who 
was  to  drive.  But  although  there  was  room  in  the  coach,  and 
though  papa  said  he  should  go  if  he  liked,  and  though  the  lad 
longed  to  go  — as  who  wouldn’t?  — he  jumped  off  the  box, 
and  said  he  would  not  go  : mamma  would  like  him  to  stop  at 
home  and  keep  his  sister  company  ; and  so  down  he  went  like 
a hero.  Does  this  story  appear  trivial  to  any  one  who  reads 
it?  If  so,  he  is  a pompous  fellow,  whose  opinion  is  not  worth 
the  having  ; or  he  has  no  children  of  his  own  ; or  he  has  for- 
gotten the  day  when  he  was  a child  himself;  or  he  has  never 
repented  of  the  surly  sellishness  with  which  he  treated  brothers 
and  sisters,  after  the  habit  of  young  English  gentlemen. 

That’s  a list  that  uncle  keeps  of  his  children,”  said  the 
same  3'oung  fellow,  seeing  his  uncle  reading  a paper;  and  to 
understand  this  joke,  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  children 
of  the  gentleman  called  uncle  came  into  the  breakfast-room  by 
half-dozens.  That’s  a ram  fellow,”  said  the  eldest  of  these 
latter  to  me,  as  his  father  went  out  of  the  room,  evidently 
thinking  his  pa[)a  was  the  greatest  wit  and  wonder  in  the 
whole  world.  And  a great  merit,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  on 
the  part  of  these  worthy  parents  was,  that  they  consented  not 
only  to  make,  but  to  take  jokes  from  their  }’oung  ones  : nor 
was  the  parental  authority  in  the  least  weakened  b}^  this  kind 
familiar  intercourse. 

A word  with  regard  to  the  ladies  so  far.  Those  I have  seen 
appear  to  the  full  as  well  educated  and  refined,  and  far  more 
frank  and  cordial,  than  the  generality  of  the  lair  creatures  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Channel.  1 have  not  heard  anything 
about  poetry,  to  be  sure,  and  in  only  one  house  have  seen  an 
album  ; but  1 have  heard  some  capital  music,  of  an  excellent 
famih’  sort — that  sort  which  is  used,  namely,  to  set  3"oung 
people  dancing,  which  the3'  have  done  merrily  for  some  nights. 
In  respect  of  drinking,  among  the  gentry  teetotalism  does  not, 
thank  heaven  ! as  yet  appear  to  prevail ; but  although  the  claret 
has  been  invariably  good,  there  has  been  no  improper  use  of 
it.*  Let  all  English  be  recommended  to  be  veiw  careful  of 
whiske3',  which  experience  teaches  to  be  a very  deleterious 
drink.  Natives  say  that  it  is  vdiolesome,  and  may  be  some- 
times seen  to  use  it  with  impunity ; but  the  whiskey-fever  is 
naturall3'  more  fatal  to  strangers  than  inhabitants  of  the  coun- 

* The  only  instances  of  intoxication  that  I liave  lieard  of  as  yet,  have 
been  on  the  part  of  two  “ cyouncillors,”  undeniably  drunk  and  noisy  yes- 
terday after  the  bar  dinner  at  Waterford. 


32 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


try ; and  whereas  an  Irishman  will  sometimes  imbibe  a half- 
dozen  tumblers  of  the  poison,  two  glasses  will  be  often  found 
to  cause  headaches,  heartburns,  and  fevers  to  a person  newly 
arrived  in  the  countiy.  The  said  whiske}'  is  alwaj’s  to  be  had  for 
the  asking,  but  is  not  produced  at  the  bettermost  sort  of  tables. 

Before  setting  out  on  our  second  day’s  journey,  we  had  time 

to  accompany  the  well-[)leased  owner  of  II town  over  some 

of  his  holds  and  out-premises.  Nor  can  there  be  a pleasanter 

sight  to  owner  or  sti-auger.  Mr.  T farms  four  hundred 

acres  of  land  about  his  house  ; and  employs  on  this  estate  no 
less  than  a hundred  and  ten  persons.  He  says  there  is  full 
work  for  every  one  of  them  ; and  to  see  the  elaborate  state  of 
cultivation  in  which  the  land  was,  it  is  easy  to  understand  how 
such  an  agricultural  regiment  were  employed.  The  estate  is 
like  a well-ordered  garden  : we  walked  into  a huge  held  of  po- 
tatoes, and  the  landlord  made  us  remark  that  there  was  not  a 
single  weed  between  the  furrows  ; and  the  whole  formed  a vast 
flower-bed  of  a score  of  acres.  Eveiy  bit  of  land  up  to  the 
hedge-side  was  fertilized  and  full  of  produce  : the  space  left  for 
the  plough  having  afterwards  been  gone  over,  and  yielding  its 
fullest  proportion  of  “ fruit.”  In  a turnip-held  were  a score 
or  more  of  women  and  children,  who  wei’e  marching  through 
the  ridges,  removing  the  young  plants  where  two  or  three  had 
grown  together,  and  leaving  only  the  most  health3\  Every 
individual  root  in  the  held  was  thus  the  object  of  culture  ; and 
the  owner  said  that  this  extreme  cultivation  answered  his  pur- 
pose, and  that  the  em})loyment  of  all  these  hands,  (the  women 
and  children  earn  (h/.  and  Sd.  a day  all  the  }Tar  round,)  which 
gained  him  some  rei)utation  as  a philanthropist,  brought  him 
profit  as  a farmer  too  ; for  his  crops  were  the  best  that  land 
could  i)roduce.  He  has  further  the  advantage  of  a large  stock 
for  manure,  and  does  evervthing  for  the  land  which  art  can  do. 

Here  we  saw  several  experiments  in  manuring:  an  acre 
of  turnips  j^repaved  with  bone-dust;  another  with  “ Murray’s 
Composition,”  whereof  I do  not  pretend  to  know  the  ingre- 
dients ; another  with  a new  manure  called  guano.  As  far  as 
turnips  and  a first  year’s  crop  went,  the  guano  carried  the 
day.  The  })lants  on  the  guano  acre  looked  to  be  three  weeks 
in  advance  of  their  neiglibors,  and  were  extremely  plentiful 
and  healthy.  I went  to  see  this  field  two  months  after  the 
above  [)assage  was  written  : the  guano  acre  still  kept  the  lead  ; 
the  bone-dust  ran  guano  very  hard ; and  composition  was 
clearly  distanced. 

Behind  the  house  is  a fine  village  of  corn  and  hayricks,  and 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


33 


a street  of  oiit-biiildings,  where  all  the  work  of  the  farm  is 
prepared.  Here  were  iiuiiK'rons  [)eoi)le  coming  with  pails  for 
l)iittermilk,  wliieli  the  good-iiatui-ed  landlord  made  over  to 
thern.  A score  of  men  or  more  wei’e  busied  about  the  place  ; 
some  at  a gi-indstone,  otliei'S  at  a forge  — other  fellows  l)iisied 
in  the  cart-lionses  and  stables,  all  of  which  were  as  neatl}’  kept 
as  in  the  l)est  farm  in  England.  A little  further  on  was  a 
llower-garden,  a kitchen-garden,  a hot-honse  just  building,  a 
kennel  of  line  [)ointers  and  setters  ; — indeed  a noble  feature  ot 
country  neatness,  thrift,  and  [)lentv. 

We  went  into  the  cottages  and  gardens  of  several  of  Mr. 

P ’s  laborers,  which  were  all  so  neat  that  I could  not  hel[) 

fancying  they  were  pet  cottages,  erected  under  the  landlord’s 
own  superintendence,  and  ornamented  to  his  oi’der.  But  he 
declared  that  it  was  not  so  ; that  the  only  benefit  his  laborers 
got  from  him  was  constant  work,  and  a house  rent-free  ; and 
that  the  neatness  of  the  gardens  and  dwellings  was  of  their  own 
doing.  By  making  them  a [)resent  of  the  house,  he  said,  he 
made  them  a present  of  the  pig  and  live  stock,  with  which 
almost  every  Irish  cotter  [>a3's  his  rent,  so  that  each  workman 
conld  have  a bit  of  meat  for  his  support ; — would  that  all 
laborers  in  the  em[)ire  had  as  much  ! With  regard  to  the  neat- 
ness of  the  houses,  the  best  wav  to  ensure  this,  he  said,  was 
for  the  master  constantly  to  visit  them — ^to  awaken  as  much 
emulation  as  he  could  amongst  the  cottagers,  so  that  each 
should  make  his  place  as  good  as  his  neighbor’s  — and  to  take 
them  good-liLimoretlly  to  task  if  they  failed  in  the  requisite 
care. 

And  so  this  pleasant  da}^’s  visit  ended.  A more  practical 
person  would  have  seen,  no  doubt,  and  understood  much  more 
than  a mere  citizen  could,  whose  pursuits  have  been  veiy  dif- 
ferent from  those  noble  and  useful  ones  here  spoken  of.  But 
a man  has  no  call  to  be  a judge  of  turnips  or  live  stock,  in 
order  to  admire  such  an  estal)lishment  as  this,  and  heartiW  to 
appreciate  the  excellence  of  it.  There  are  some  happ}"  organi- 
zations in  the  world  which  possess  the  great  virtue  of  prosperity. 
It  implies  cheerfulness,  simplicity,  shrewdness,  perseverance, 
honesty,  good  health.  See  how,  before  the  good-liumored 
resolution  of  such  characters,  ill-luck  gives  way,  and  fortune 
assumes  their  own  smiling  complexion  ! Such  men  grow  rich 
without  driving  a single  hard  bargain  ; their  condition  being  to 
make  others  prosper  along  with  themselves.  Thus,  his  veiy 
charity,  another  informant  tells  me,  is  one  of  the  causes  of  m3" 
host’s  good  fortune,  He  might  have  three  pounds  a j^ear  from 


34 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


each  of  fort}^  cottages,  but  instead  prefers  a hundred  healthy 
workmen ; or  he  might  have  a fourth  of  the  number  of  work- 
men, and  a farm  yielding  a produce  proportionately  less  ; but 
instead  of  saving  the  rnone}^  of  their  wages,  prefers  a farm  the 
produce  of  which,  as  I have  heard  from  a gentleman  whom  I 
take  to  be  good  authoriU’,  is  unequalled  elsewhere. 

Besides  the  cottages,  we  visited  a pretty  school  where 
children  of  an  exceeding  smallness  were  at  their  work, — the 
children  of  the  Catholic  peasantiy.  The  few  Protestants  of 
the  district  do  not  attend  the  national-school,  nor  learn  their 
alphabet  or  their  multiplication-table  in  compan}-  with  their 
little  Roman  Catholic  brethren.  The  clergyman  who  lives 

hard  by  the  gate  of  II town,  in  his  communication  with 

his  parishioners  cannot  fail  to  see  how  much  miseiy  is  relieved 
and  how  much  good  is  done  by  his  neighbor ; but  though  the 
two  gentlemen  are  on  good  terms,  the  clergyman  will  not  break 
bread  with  his  Catholic  fellow-Christian.  There  can  be  no 
harm,  I hope,  in  mentioning  this  fact,  as  it  is  rather  a public 
than  a private  matter;  and,  unfortunately,  it  is  only  a stranger 
that  is  surprised  by  such  a circumstance,  which  is  quite  famil- 
iar to  residents  of  the  countiy.  There  are  Catholic  inns  and 
Jh’otestant  inns  in  the  towns  ; Catholic  coaches  and  Protestant 
coaches  on  the  roads ; na}',  in  the  North,  I have  since  heard 
of  a High  Church  coach  and  a Low  Church  coach  adopted  by 
travelling  Christians  of  either  party. 


CHAPTER  III. 

FROM  CARLOW  TO  WATERFORD. 

The  next  morning  being  fixed  for  the  commencement  of  our 
Journey  towards  ^Yaterford,  a carriage  made  its  appearance  in 
due  time  before  Ihe  hall-door : an  amateur  stage-coach,  with 
four  fine  horses,  '..at  were  to  carry  us  to  Cork.  The  crew  of 
the  drag,”  for  the  present,  consisted  of  two  young  ladies,  and 
two  who  will  not  be  old,  please  heaven ! for  these  thirt}'  years  ; 
three  gentlemen  whose  collected  weights  might  amount  to  fifty- 
four  stone  ; and  one  of  smaller  proportions,  being  as  }’et  only 
twelve  years  old  : to  these  w^ere  added  a couple  of  grooms  and  a 
lady’s  -maid.  Subsequently  wc  took  in  a do^en  or  so  more  jxis- 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


35 


gengers,  who  did  not  seem  in  the  slightest  degree  to  inconven- 
ience the  coach  or  the  horses  ; and  tlms  was  formed  a tolerably 
numerous  and  merry  party.  The  governor  took  the  reins,  with 
his  geranium  in  his  button-hole,  and  the  [)lace  on  the  box  was 
quarrelled  for  without  ceasing,  and  taken  b}^  turns. 

Our  day’s  journe}'  lay  tlirough  a country  more  picturesque, 
though  l)y  no  means  so  i)rosperous  and  well  cultivated  as  the 
district  tlirough  which  we  had  passed  on  our  drive  from  Dublin. 
This  trip  carried  us  through  tlie  County  of  Carlow  and  the  town 
of  that  name  : a wretclied  place  enough,  with  a fine  court-house, 
and  a coiqile  of  line  churches  : the  Trotestant  church  a noble 
structure,  and  the  Catholic  cathedral  said  to  be  built  after  some 
continental  model.  The  Catholics  point  to  the  structure  with 
considerable  pride  : it  was  the  first,  1 believe,  of  the  many 
handsome  cathedrals  for  their  worslfqi  which  have  been  built  of 
late  years  in  this  country  by  the  noble  contributions  of  the  poor 
man’s  penny,  and  1)}'  the  untiring  energies  and  sacrifices  of  the 
clergy.  Bishop  Doyle,  the  founder  of  the  church,  has  the  place 
of  honor  within  it ; nor,  perlnqis,  did  any  Christian  pastor  ever 
merit  the  affection  of  his  flock  more  than  that  great  and  high- 
minded  man.  lie  was  the  bnst  chaiiqiion  the  Catholic  Church 
and  cause  ever  had  in  Ireland : in  learning,  and  admirable 
kindness  and  virtue,  the  best  exanqile  to  the  clergy  of  his 
religion  : and  if  the  countiy  is  now  filled  with  schools,  where 
the  humblest  peasant  in  it  can  have  the  benefit  of  a liberal  and 
wholesome  education,  it  owes  this  great  boon  mainly  to  his 
noble  exertions,  and  to  the  spirit  which  they  awakened. 

As  for  the  architecture  of  the  cathedral,  1 do  not  fancy  a 
professional  man  would  find  much  to  praise  in  it ; it  seems  to 
me  overloaded  with  ornaments,  nor  were  its  innumerable  spires 
and  pinnacles  the  more  pleasing  to  the  eye  because  some  of  them 
were  out  of  the  perpendicular.  The  interior  is  quite  plain,  not 
to  say  bare  and  unfinished.  Many  of  the  chapels  in  the  countiy 
that  I have  since  seen  are  in  a similar  condition  ; for  when  the 
walls  are  once  raised,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  subscribers  to  tlie 
building  seems  somewhat  characteristicalty  to  grow  cool,  and 
3'ou  enter  at  a porch  that  would  suit  a palace,  with  an  interior 
scarcely  more  decorated  than  a barn.  A wide  large  floor,  some 
confession-boxes  against  the  blank  walls  here  and  there,  with 
some  humble  pictures  at  the  “ stations,”  and  the  statue,  under 
a mean  canopy  of  red  woollen  stuff,  were  the  chief  furniture  of 
the  cathedral. 

The  severe  homety  features  of  the  good  bishop  were  not  very 
favorable  subjects  for  Mr.  Hogan’s  chisel ; but  a figure  of  pros- 


36 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


trate,  weeping  Ireland,  kneeling  by  the  prelate’s  side,  and  for 
whom  he  is  imploring  protection,  has  much  beauty.  In  the 
chapels  of  Dublin  and  Cork  some  of  this  artist’s  work  ma}^  be 
seen,  and  his  countrymen  are  exceedingly  proud  of  him. 

Counected  with  the  Catholic  cathedral  is  a large  tumble- 
down-looking diviniCv  college  : there  are  upwards  of  a hundred 
students  here,  and  the  college  is  licensed  to  give  degrees  in  arts 
as  well  as  divinit}' ; at  least  so  the  ollicer  of  the  church  said, 
as  he  sliowed  us  the  place  through  the  bars  of  the  sacristy- 
windows,  in  which  apartment  may  be  seen  sundiy  crosses,  a 
pastoral  letter  of  Dr.  Doyle,  and  a number  of  ecclesiastical 
vestments  formed  of  laces,  poplins,  and  velvets  handsomely 
laced  with  gold.  There  is  a convent  b}’  the  side  of  the  cathe- 
dral, and,  of  course,  a parcel  of  beggars  all  about,  and  indeed 
all  over  the  town,  i)rofuse  in  their  pra^’ers  and  invocations  of 
the  Lord,  and  whining  flatteries  of  the  persons  whom  thej' 
address.  One  wretched  old  tottering  hag  began  whining  the 
Loi’d’s  Prayer  as  a proof  of  her  sinceritjy  and  blundered  in 
the  very  midst  of  it,  and  left  us  thoroughly  disgusted  after 
the  very  first  sentence. 

It  was  market-day  in  the  town,  which  is  tolerably  full  of 
poor-looking  shops,  the  streets  being  thronged  with  donkey- 
carts^  and  peo[)le  eager  to  l)arter  their  small  wares.  Here 
and  there  were  picture-stalls,  with  huge  hideous-colored  en- 
gravings of  the  Saints  : and  indeed  the  objects  of  barter  upon 
the  banks  of  the  clear  bright  river  Barrow  seemed  scarcel^^  to 
be  of  more  value  than  the  articles  which  change  hands,  as  one 
reads  of,  in  a town  of  African  huts  and  traders  on  the  banks  of 
the  ( ^norra.  Perhaps  the  very  bustle  and  cheerfulness  of  the 
people  served  only,  to  a Londoner’s  ('ye,  to  make  it  look  the 
more  miserable.  It  seems  as  if  they  had  no  right  to  be  eager 
about  such  a parcel  of  wretched  rags  and  trifles  as  were  exposed 
to  sale. 

There  are  some  old  towers  of  a castle  here,  looking  finel}' 
from  the  river ; and  near  the  town  is  a grand  modern  residence 
belonging  to  Colonel  Bruen,  with  an  oak-park  on  one  side  of 
the  road,  and  a deer-park  on  the  other.  These  retainers  of  the 
Colonel’s  lay  in  their  rushy  green  iuclosures,  in  great  numbers, 
and  seemingly  in  flourishing  condition. 

The  road  from  (’arlow  to  Leighlin  Bridge  is  exceedingly 
beautiful : noble  pure  hills  rising  on  either  side,  and  the  broad 
silver  Barrow  flowing  through  rich  meadows  of  that  astonish- 
ing verdure  which  is  onl3'  to  be  seen  in  this  country.  Here  and 
there  was  a countiy-house,  or  a tall  mill  b}'  a stream-side : but 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


37 


the  latter  biiiklhigs  were  for  the  most  part  empt}',  the  gaunt 
windows  gaping  without  glass,  and  their  great  wheels  idle. 
Leighlin  Bridge,  lying  u[)  and  down  a hill  by  tlie  river  contains 
a considerable  number  of  pom[)oiis-lookiiig  warehouses,  that 
looked  for  the  most  i)art  to  be  doing  no  more  business  than 
the  mills  on  the  Carlow  road,  but  stood  by  the  roadside  staring 
at  the  coach  as  it  were,  and  basking  in  the  sun,  swaggeilng, 
idle,  insolvent,  and  out-at-elbows.  There  are  one  or  two  very 
pretty,  modest,  comfortable-looking  counti’y  places  about  Leigh- 
liii  Bridge,  and  on  the  road  thence  to  a miserable  village  called 
the  Royal  Oak,  a beggarly  sort  of  bustling  [dace. 

Here  stands  a dihi[)idated  hotel  and  [)OSting-house : and 
indeed  on  eveiy  road,  as  yet,  I have  been  astonished  at  the 
great  movement  and  stir; — the  old  coaches  being  invariably 
crammed,  cars  jingling  about  eapially  full,  and  no  want  of  gen- 
tlemen’s carriages  to  exercise  the  horses  of  the  Royal  Oak” 
and  similar  establishments.  In  the  time  of  the  rebellion,  the 
landlord  of  this  Royal  Oak,”  a great  character  in  those  [>arts, 
was  a fierce  United  Irishman.  t)ne  da}’  it  ha[)[)ened  that  Sir 
John  Anderson  came  to  the  inn,  and  was  eager  for  horses  on. 
The  landlord,  who  knew  Sir  John  to  be  a Tory,  vowed  and 
swore  he  had  no  horses  ; that  the  judges  had  the  last  going  to 
Kilkenny  ; that  the  yeomanry  had  carried  off  the  best  of  them  ; 
that  he  could  not  give  a horse  Ibi-  love  or  money.  Poor 
Lord  Edward  ! ” said  Sir  John,  sinking  down  in  a chair,  and 
clasping  his  hands,  ^‘my  [)oor  dear  misguided  friend,  and  must 
you  die  for  the  loss  of  a few  hours  anti  the  want  of  a pair  of 
horses  ? ” 

Lord  WhatV  says  the  landlord. 

“ Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,”  re[)lied  Sir  John.  “ The  Gov- 
ernment has  seized  his  [lapers,  and  got  scent  of  his  hiding- 
place.  If  I can’t  get  to  liim  before  two  hours,  Sirr  will  have 
him.” 

“My  dear  Sir  John,”  cried  the  landlord,  “it’s  not  two 
horses  but  it’s  eight  I’ll  give  you,  and  may  the  judges  go  hang 
for  me  ! Here,  Larry  ! Tim  ! First  and  second  pair  for  Sir 
John  Anderson  ; and  long  life  to  you.  Sir  .John,  and  the  Lord 
reward  you  for  your  good  deed  this  day  ! ” 

Sir  John,  my  informant  told  me,  had  invented  this  predica- 
ment of  Lord  Edward’s  in  order  to  get  the  horses  ; and  by  way 
of  corroborating  the  whole  story,  pointed  out  an  old  chaise 
which  stood  at  the  inn-door  with  its  window  broken,  a great 
crevice  in  the  panel,  some  little  wretches  crawling  underneath 
the  wheels,  and  two  huge  blackguards  lolling  against  the  pole-. 


38 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


“And  that,”  says  he,  “is  no  doubt  the  very  post-chaise  Sir 
John  Anderson  had.”  It  certainl}’  looked  ancient  enough. 

Of  course,  as  vve  stopped  for  a moment  in  the  place,  troops 
of  slatternly,  ruffianl3’-looking  fellows  assembled  round  the  car- 
riage, dirty  heads  peeped  out  of  all  the  dirt}'  windows,  beggars 
came  forward  with  a joke  and  a prayer,  and  troo])s  of  children 
raised  their  shouts  and  halloos.  I confess,  with  regard  to  the 
beggars,  that  I have  never  yet  had  the  slightest  sentiment  of 
compassion  for  the  very  oldest  or  dirtiest  of  them,  or  been 
inclined  to  give  them  a [)enny  : they  come  crawling  round  you 
with  l}’iug  prayers  and  loathsome  compliments,  that  make  the 
stomach  turn  ; they  do  not  even  disguise  that  they  are  lies  ; 
for,  refuse  them  and  the  wretches  turn  olf  with  a laugh  and  a 
joke,  a miserable  grinning  cynicism  that  creates  distrust  and 
inditference,  and  must  be,  one  would  think,  the  very  best  way 
to  close  the  purse,  not  to  open  it,  for  objects  so  unworthy. 

How  do  all  these  people  live?  one  can’t  help  wondering  ; — 
these  multifarious  vagabonds,  without  work  or  workhouse,  or 
means  of  subsistence?  The  Irish  Poor  Law  Report  says  that 
there  are  twelve  hundred  tliousand  peoi)le  in  Ireland  — a sixth 
of  the  [)0[)ulation  — who  have  no  means  of  livelihood  but  char- 
ity, and  whom  tlie  State,  or  individual  members  of  it,  must 
maintain.  How  can  the  State  support  such  an  enormous  bur- 
den ; or  the  twelve  hundred  thousand  be  supported?  What  a 
strange  history  it  would  be,  could  one  but  get  it  true,  — that  of 
the  manner  in  which  a score  of  these  beggars  have  maintained 
themselves  for  a fortnight  past ! 

Soon  after  quitting  the  “ Royal  Oak,”  our  road  branches  off 
to  the  hospitable  house  where  our  i>arty,  consisting  of  a dozen 
persons,  was  to  be  housed  and  fed  for  the  night.  Fancy  the 
look  which  an  English  gentleman  of  moderate  means  would 
assume,  at  being  called  on  to  receive  such  a company  ! A 
pretty  road  of  a coui)lc  of  miles,  tliickly  grown  with  ash  and 
oak  trees,  under  which  the  hats  of  coach-i)assengers  suffered 

some  danger,  leads  to  the  house  of  D . A young  son  of 

the  house,  on  a white  pony,  was  on  the  look-out,  and  great 
cheering  and  shouting  took  place  among  the  young  people  as 
we  came  in  sight. 

Trotting  away  by  the  carriage-side  he  brought  us  through 
a gate  with  a pretty  avenue  of  trees  leading  to  the  pleasure- 
grounds  of  the  house  — a handsome  building  commanding  no- 
ble views  of  river,  mountains,  and  plantations.  Our  entertainer 
onl}'  rents  the  place  ; so  I may  say,  without  any  imputation 
against  him,  that  the  house  was  by  no  means  so  handsome 


THE  IRIISIl  SKETCH  BOOK. 


39 


within  as  without,  — not  that  the  want  of  finish  in  the  interior 
made  our  party  the  less  merry,  or  the  host’s  entertainment  less 
heart}’  and  cordial. 

The  gentleman  who  built  and  owns  tlie  house,  like  maii}^ 
other  [iroprietors  in  Ireland,  found  his  mansion  too  expensive 
for  his  means,  and  lias  relinquished  it.  I asked  what  his  income 
might  be,  and  no  wonder  that  he  was  compelled  to  resign  his 
house  ; which  a man  with  four  times  the  income  in  England 
would  scarcel}’  venture  to  inhabit.  Tliei-e  were  numerous  sit- 
ting-rooms below  ; a large  suite  of  rooms  above,  in  which  our 
large  party,  with  their  servants,  disappeared  without  any  seem- 
ing inconvenience,  and  which  alrcad}’  accommodated  a family 
of  at  least  a dozen  [lersons,  and  a numerous  train  of  domestics. 
There  was  a great  court-yard  surrounded  liy  ca^iital  ollices,  with 
stabling  and  coach-houses  sullicient  for  a half-dozen  of  country 
gentlemen.  An  English  sipiire  of  ten  thousand  a year  might 
live  in  such  a place  — the  original  owner,  1 am  told,  had  not 
many  more  hundreds. 

Our  host  has  wisely  turned  the  chief  part  of  the  pleasure- 
ground  round  the  house  into  a farm  ; nor  did  the  land  look  a 
bit  the  worse,  as  I thought,  for  having  rich  crops  of  potatoes 
growing  in  place  of  grass,  and  fine  [ilots  of  waving  wheat  and 
barley.  The  care,  skill,  and  neatness  everywhere  exhibited, 
and  the  immense  luxuriance  of  the  crops,  could  not  fail  to  strike 
even  a cockne}’ : and  one  of  our  part}’,  a very  well-known, 
practical  farmer,  told  me  that  there  was  at  least  live  hundred 
pounds’  worth  of  produce  upon  the  little  estate  of  some  sixty 
acres,  of  which  only  five-and-twenty  were  under  the  [)lough. 

As  at  II town,  on  the  previous  day,  sevei'al  men  and 

women  appeared  sauntering  in  the  grounds,  and  as  the  master 
came  up,  asked  for  w’ork,  or  sixpence,  or  told  a story  of  want. 
There  are  lodge-gates  at  both  ends  of  the  demesne  ; but  it  ap- 
pears the  good-natured  practice  of  the  country  admits  a beggar 
as  well  as  any  other  visitor.  To  a couple  our  landlord  ga’S’e 
money,  to  another  a little  job  of  work  ; another  he  sent  roughly 
out  of  the  premises  : and  1 could  judge  thus  what  a continual 
tax  upon  the  Irish  gentleman  these  travelling  paupers  must  be, 
of  whom  his  ground  is  never  free. 

There,  loitering  about  the  stables  and  out-houses,  were  sev- 
eral people  who  seemed  to  have  acquired  a sort  of  right  to  be 
there  : women  and  children  w’ho  had  a claim  upon  the  butter- 
milk ; men  who  did  an  odd  job  now  and  then  ; loose  hangers-on 
of  the  family  : and  in  the  lodging-houses  and  inns  I have  en- 
tered, the  same  sort  of  ragged  vassals  are  to  be  found  ; in  a 


40 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


house  however  poor,  you  are  sure  to  see  some  poorer  depe-ndant 
who  is  a stranger,  taking  a meal  of  potatoes  in  the  kitchen  ; a 
Tim  or  Mike  loitering  hard  b}',  read^'  to  run  on  a message,  or 
cany  a bag.  This  is  written,  for  instance,  at  a lodging  over  a 
shop  at  Cork.  There  sits  in  the  shop  a poor  old  fellow  quite 
[)ast  work,  but  who  totters  up  and  down  stairs  to  the  lodgers, 
and  does  what  little  he  can  for  his  easily-won  bread.  There  is 
another  fellow  outside  who  is  sure  to  make  his  bow  to  anybod}^ 
issuing  from  the  lodging,  and  ask  if  his  honor  wants  an  errand 
done?  Neither  class  of  such  dependants  exists  with  us.  What 
liousekeeper  in  London  is  there  will  feed  an  old  man  of  sev- 
(mty  that’s  good  for  nothing,  or  encourage  such  a disreputable 
hanger-on  as  3’onder  shuffling,  smiling  cad? 

Nor  did  Mi’.  M ’s  irregulars”  disappear  with  the  day; 

for  when,  after  a great  deal  of  merriment,  and  kind,  happy 
dancing  and  romping  of  3’oung  [leople,  the  lineness  of  the  night 
suggested  the  propriety  of  smoking  a certain  cigar  (it  is  never 
more  acceptable  than  at  that  season),  the  3'oung  squire  voted 
that  we  should  adjourn  to  the  staliles  for  the  purpose,  where 
accordingly  the  cigars  were  discussed.  There  were  still  the  inev- 
itable half-dozen  hangers-on  : one  came  grinning  with  a lantern, 
all  nature  being  in  universal  blackness  except  his  grinning  face  ; 
another  ran  obsequiously  to  the  stables  to  show  a favorite  mare 
— I think  it  was  a mare  — though  it  may  have  been  a mnle,  and 
your  humble  servant  not  much  the  wiser.  The  cloths  were 
taken  off;  the  fellows  with  the  candles  crowded  about;  and  the 
young  scpiirc  bade  me  admire  the  beauty  of  her  for(‘-leg,  which 
I did  with  the  greatest  possible  gravit3\  “ Did  you  ever  see 
such  a fore-leg  as  that  in  your  life?”  sa3’s  the  3’onng  squire, 
and  further  discoursed  iqion  the  horse’s  points,  the  amateur 
grooms  joining  in  chorus. 

'riicre  was  another  young  squire  of  our  party,  a pleasant 
gentlemanlike  young  lellow,  who  danced  as  prettily  as  aii3' 
Ph-enchinan,  and  who  had  ridden  over  from  a neighboring  house  : 
as  1 went  to  bed,  the  two  lads  were  arguing  whether  young 

Squire  1> should  go  home  or  sta3'  at  D that  night. 

There  was  a bed  for  him — there  was  a bed  for  everybody  it 
seemed,  and  a kind  welcome  too.  IIow  different  was  all  this  to 
the  ways  ol‘  a severe  English  house  ! 

Next  morning  the  whole  ol*  our  merry  pa rtv  assembled  round 
a long,  jovial  breakfast-table,  stored  with  all  sorts  of  good 
things  ; and  the  biggest  and  jovialest  man  of  all,  who  had  just 
come  in  fresh  from  a walk  in  the  fields,  and  vowed  that  he  was 
as  hungr3'  as  a hunter,  and  was  cutting  some  slices  out  of  an 


THE  IRISH  SKEI'CH  ROOK. 


41 


inviting  ham  on  tlie  side-table,  suddenly  let  fall  his  knife  and 
fork  with  dismay.  “ Sure,  John,  don’t  you  know  it’s  Friday'?” 
eried  a lady  from  the  table  ; and  back  John  came  with  a most 
lugubrious  (lueer  look  on  his  jolly  lace,  and  fell  to  work  upon 
bread-and-l)utter,  as  resigned  as  possible,  amidst  no  small 
laughter,  as  may  be  well  imagined.  On  this  I was  bound,  as  a 
Fi-otestant,  to  eat  a large  sliee  of  i)ork,  and  diseharged  that 
duty  nobly,  and  with  much  scJf-saeriliee. 

'I'lu'  famous  di’ag”  whiuh  had  bi-ought  us  so  fai‘,  seemed  to 
be  as  hosi)itable  ancl  elastic*  as  the  house*  wliich  we  now  left, 
for  the  coach  accommodated,  inside  and  out,  a considerable 
party  IVom  the  house  ; and  we  took  our  load  leisurely,  in  a 
cloudless  scorching  day,  towards  A\’at(‘rfoi’d.  The  llrst  place 
we  passed  through  was  the  little  town  of  (lowran,  near  which 
is  a gia.id,  well-ordere'd  park,  belonging  to  Lord  (Jilden,  and 
Avhere  his  mother  resides,  with  whose  beautiful  face,  in  Law- 
reu(*e’s  [lictures,  every  rc'aiU'r  must  be  familiar.  The  kind  Eng- 
lish lady  has  done  the  greatest  good  in  the  neighborhood,  it  is 
said,  and  the  little  town  bears  marks  of  lu'r  bc“ne(icence,  in  its 
neatness,  iirettiness,  and  order,  (’lose*  by  tlie  church  there  are 
the  ruins  of  a tine  old  abbev  here,  and  a still  liner  one  a few 
mil(‘s  on,  at  Thomastown,  most  })icturc*S(jiu*ly  situated  amidst 
trees  and  meadow,  on  the  river  Xore.  J’lie  [)lace  within,  how- 
ever, is  dirty  and  ruinous  — the  same  wretched  suburbs,  the 
same  sejualid  congi'egation  of  beggarly  loungers,  that  are  to  be 
seen  elsewhere,  ddie  monastic  ruin  is  very  line,  and  the  road 
hence  to  Thomastown  rich  with  varied  cultivation  and  lieantiful 
verdure,  pretty  gentlemen’s  mansions  shining  among  the  trees 
on  either  side  of  the  way.  There  was  oive  place  along  this  rich 
tract  that  looked  very  strange  and  ghastly  — a huge  old  pair  of 
gate  iiillars.  Hanked  by  a ruinous  lodge,  and  a wide  road  wind- 
ing for  a mile  u[)  a hill.  There  had  been  a park  once,  but  all 
the  trees  were  gone  ; thistles  were  growing  in  the  yellow  sickly 
land,  and  rank  thin  grass  on  the  road.  Far  away  you  saw  in 
this  desolate  tract  a ruin  of  a house  : many  a butt  of  claret  has 
been  emptied  there,  no  doubt,  and  many  a meriy  pai’ty  come 
out  with  hound  and  horn.  But  what  strikes  the  Englishman 
with  wonder  is  not  so  much,  perhaps,  that  an  owner  of  the 
place  should  have  been  mined  and  a spendthrift,  as  that  the 
land  should  lie  there  useless  ever  since.  If  one  is  not  suc- 
cessful with  ns  another  man  will  be,  or  another  will  tiy,  at 
least.  Here  lies  useless  a great  capital  of  hundreds  of 
acres  of  land  ; barren,  where  the  commonest  effort  might  make 
it  productive,  and  looking  as  if  for  a quarter  of  a century 


42 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


past  no  soul  ever  looked  or  cared  for  it.  You  might  travel 
five  hundred  miles  through  England  and  not  see  such  a spec- 
tacle. 

A short  distance  from  Thomastown  is  another  abbe}^ ; and 
presentl}^,  after  passing  through  the  village  of  Knocktopher, 
we  came  to  a posting-place  called  Ballyhale,  of  the  moral  aspect 
of  which  the  following  scrap  taken  in  the  place  will  give  a 
notion.* 

A dirt}",  old,  contented,  decrepit  idler  was  lolling  in  the  sun 
at  a shop-door,  and  hundreds  of  the  population  of  the  dirt}", 
old,  decrepit,  contented  place  were  employed  in  the  like  way. 
A dozen  of  boys  were  playing  at  pitch-and-toss ; other  male 
and  female  beggars  were  sitting  on  a wall  looking  into  a 
stream  ; scores  of  ragamuffins,  of  coin-se,  round  the  carriage  ; 
and  beggars  galore  at  the  door  of  the  little  ale-house  or  hotel. 
A gentleman’s  carriage  changed  horses  as  we  were  baiting 
here.  It  was  a rich  sight  to  see  the  cattle,  and  the  way  of 
starting  them  : Halloo  J Yoop  — hoop!”  a dozen  ragged 

ostlers  and  amateurs  running  by  the  side  of  the  miserable  old 
horses,  the  postilion  shrieking,  yelling,  and  belaboring  them 
with  his  whi[).  Down  goes  one  horse  among  the  new-laid 
stones  ; the  })ostilion  has  him  up  with  a cut  of  the  whip  and 
a curse,  and  takes  advantage  of  the  stait  caused  by  the  stum- 
ble to  get  the  brute  into  a gallop,  and  to  go  down  the  hill. 

1 know  it  for  a fact,”  a gentleman  of  our  party  says,  that 
no  horses  ever  got  out  of  Ballyhale  without  an  accident  of  some 
kind.” 

“ Will  your  honor  like  to  come  and  see  a big  pig?”  here 
asked  a man  of  the  above  gentleman,  well  known  as  a great 
farmer  and  l)reeder.  We  all  went  to  see  the  big  pig,  not  very 
fat  as  yet,  but,  u[)on  my  word,  it  is  as  big  as  a pony.  The 
country  round  is,  it  a[)pears,  famous  for  the  breeding  of  such, 
especially  a district  called  the  Welsh  mountains,  through  which 
we  had  to  pass  on  our  road  to  Yhiterford. 

This  is  a curious  country  to  see,  and  has  curious  inhabi- 
tants : for  twenty  miles  there  is  no  gentleman’s  house  : gentle- 
men dare  not  live  there.  The  place  was  originally  tenanted  by 
a clan  of  Welshes  ; hence  its  name  ; and  they  maintain  them- 
selves in  their  occupancy  of  the  farms  in  Tipperary  fashion,  by 
simply  putting  a ball  into  the  body  of  any  man  who  would 
come  to  take  a farm  over  any  one  of  them.  Some  of  the  crops 
in  the  fields  of  the  Welsh  country  seemed  very  good,  and  the 
fields  well  tilled  ; but  it  is  common  to  see,  by  the  side  of  one 

* This  refers  to  an  illustrated  edition  of  the  work. 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


43 


field  that  is  well  cultivated,  aiiotlier  that  is  absolutely  barren  ■, 
and  the  whole  tract  is  extreinel}^  wretched.  Appropriate  his- 
tories and  reminiscences  accoin})an3^  the  traveller:  at  a chapel 
near  Mullinavat  is  the  si>ot  where  sixteen  policemen  were  mur- 
dered in  the  titlui-campaigii  ; lartlicr  on  you  come  to  a lime-kiln, 
where  the  guard  (d‘  a mail-coach  was  seized  and  roasted  alive. 
I saw  here  the  lirst  hedge-scliool  I have  seen  : a crowd  of  half- 
savage-looking  lads  and  girls  looked  up  from  their  studies  in 
the  ditch,  their  college  or  lecture-room  being  in  a mud  cabin 
hard  l)y. 

And  likewise,  in  the  midst  of  this  wild  tract,  a fellow  met 
us  who  was  trudging  the  road  with  a lish-basket  over  his 
shoulder,  and  who  stop[)cd  the  coach,  hailing  two  of  the  gen- 
tlemen in  it  bv  name,  both  of  whom  seemed  to  be  much  amused 
by  his  Immor.  He  was  a handsome  rogue,  a poacher,  or  salmon- 
taker,  by  i)rofession,  and  [)reseutly  poured  out  such  a Hood  of 
oaths,  and  made  such  a monstrous  display  of  grinning  wit  and 
blackguardism,  as  1 have  never  heard  ecpialled  b}'  the  best 
Billingsgate  practitioner,  and  as  it  would  be  more  than  useless 
to  attem})t  to  descril)e.  Blessings,  jokes,  and  curses  trolled  off 
the  rascal’s  lips  with  a volubilit  y which  caused  his  Irish  audience 
to  shout  with  laughter,  but  which  were  quite  beyond  a cockne3^ 
It  was  a humor  so  i)urely  national  as  to  be  understood  l)y  none 
])ut  nativi's,  I should  think.  I recollect  the  same  feeling  of 
])ei'plcxity  while  sitting,  the  only  Englishman,  in  a company  of 
Jocular  Scotchmen,  d'lu'v  ))andied  about  })uns,  jokes,  imita- 
tions, and  a[)[)lauded  with  shrieks  of  laughter  what,  I confess, 
appeared  to  me  the  most  abominable  dulness  ; nor  was  the 
salmon-taker’s  jocularity  any  better.  I think  it  rather  served 
to  frighten  than  to  amuse  ; and  I am  not  sure  l)ut  that  I looked 
out  for  a l)aiid  of  jocular  cut-throats  of  this  sort  to  come  up  at 
a given  gulfaw,  and  plavfullv  rob  us  all  round.  However,  he 
went  away  quite  peaceably,  calling  down  for  the  party  the 
benediction  a great  numljer  of  saints,  who  must  have  been 
somewhat  ashamed  to  be  addressed  by  such  a rascal. 

Ih-esentl}'  we  caught  sight  of  the  valleys  through  which  the 
Suir  flows,  and  descended  the  hill  tow^ards  it,  and  went  over 
the  thundering  old  wooden  bridge  to  Waterford. 


44 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FROM  WATERFORD  TO  CORK. 

The  view  of  the  town  from  the  bridge  and  the  heights  above 
it  is  ver>'  imposing;  as  is  the  river  both  waA^s.  Veiy  large 
vessels  sail  up  almost  to  the  doors  of  the  houses,  and  the  quays 
are  flanked  by  tall  red  warehouses,  that  look  at  a little  distance 
as  if  a world  of  business  might  be  doing  within  them.  But  as 
3'OU  get  inter  the  place,  not  a soul  is  there  to  greet  except 
the  usual  societ}'  of  beggars,  and  a sailor  or  two,  or  a green- 
coated  policeman  sauntering  down  the  broad  pavement.  We 
drove  up  to  the  “ Coach  Inn,”  a huge,  handsome,  dirty  build- 
ing, of  which  the  discomforts  have  been  patheticall}"  described 
elsewhere.  The  landlord  is  a gentleman  and  considerable 
horse-proprietor,  and  though  a perfectly  well-bred,  active,  and 
intelligent  man,  far  too  much  of  a gentleman  to  pla}'  the  host 
well : at  least  as  an  Englishman  understands  that  character. 

Opposite  the  town  is  a tower  of  questionable  antiquit}^  and 
undeniable  ugliness  ; for  though  the  inscription  sa}^s  it  was 
built  in  the  3'ear  one  thousand  and  something,  the  same  docu- 
ment adds  that  it  was  rebuilt  in  1819  — to  either  of  which  dates 
the  traveller  is  thus  welcomed.  The  qua3^s  stretch  for  a con- 
siderable distance  along  the  river,  poor,  patched- windowed, 
mouldy-looking  shops  forming  the  basement-stoiy  of  most  of 
the  houses.  We  went  into  one,  a jeweller’s,  to  make  a pur- 
chase — it  might  have  been  of  a gold  watch  for  anything  the 
owner  knew  ; but  he  was  talking  with  a friend  in  his  back- 
parlor,  gave  us  a look  as  we  entered,  allowed  us  to  stand  some 
minutes  in  the  empt3"  shop,  and  at  length  to  walk  out  without 
being  served.  In  another  shop  a boy  was  lolling  behind  a 
counter,  but  could  not  sa3"  whether  the  articles  we  wanted  were 
to  be  had  ; turned  out  a heap  of  drawers,  and  could  not  find 
them  ; and  finally  went  for  the  master,  who  could  not  come 
True  commercial  independence,  and  an  easy  wa3^  enough  of 
life. 

In  one  of  the  sHeets  leading  from  the  qua3"  is  a large,  dingy 
Catholic  chapel,  of  some  pretensions  within  ; but,  as  usual, 
there  had  been  a failure  for  want  of  11101103^  and  the  front  of  the 
chapel  was  unfinished,  presenting  the  butt-end  of  a portico,  and 
walls  on  which  the  stone  coating  was  to  be  laid..  But  a much 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


45 


liner  ornament  to  the  church  than  an^^  of  the  questionable  gew- 
gaws which  adorned  the  ceiling  was  the  piety,  stern,  simple, 
and  unaffected,  of  the  people  within.  Their  whole  soul  seemed 
to  be  in  their  prayers,  as  rich  and  poor  knelt  indifferentl}'  on 
the  flags.  There  is  of  course  an  episcopal  cathedral,  well  and 
neatl}^  kept,  and  a handsome  Bishop’s  palace  : near  it  was  a 
convent  of  nuns,  and  a little  chapel-bell  clinking  melodiousl3\ 
I was  prepared  to  fancy  something  romantic  of  the  place  ; but 
as  we  passed  the  convent  gate,  a shoeless  slattern  of  a maid 
opened  the  door  — the  most  dirt}-  and  unpoetical  of  house- 
maids. 

Assizes  were  iield  in  the  town,  and  we  ascended  to  the  court- 
house througli  a steep  street,  a sort  of  rag-fair,  but  more  villa- 
nous,  and  miserable  than  an}"  rag-fair  in  St.  Giles’s  : the  houses 
and  stock  of  the  Seven  Dials  look  as  if  they  belonged  to  capi- 
talists when  compared  with  the  scarecrow  wretchedness  of  the 
goods  here  hung  out  for  sale.  Who  wanted  to  bu}"  such  things  ? 
I wondered.  One  would  have  thought  that  the  most  part  of 
the  articles  had  passed  the  possibilit}'  of  barter  for  money,  even 
out  of  the  reach  of  the  half-farthings  coined  of  late.  All  the 
street  was  lined  with  wretched  hucksters  and  their  merchandise 
of  gooseberries,  green  ap[)les,  children’s  dirty  cakes,  cheap 
crockeries,  brushes,  and  tinware  ; among  which  objects  the  peo- 
ple were  swarming  al)out  busilv. 

Before  the  court  is  a wide  street,  where  a similar  market 
was  held,  with  a vast  number  of  donkej-carts  urged  hither  and 
thither,  and  great  shrieking,  ehattering,  and  bustle.  It  is  five 
hundred  }'ears  ago  since  a poet  who  accompanied  Richard  II. 
in  his  voyage  hither  spoke  of  Watreforde  oii  moult  vilaine  et 
orde  y sont  la  genie d'  They  don’t  seem  to  be  much  changed 
now,  but  remain  faithful  to  their  ancient  habits. 

About  the  court-house  swarms  of  beggars  of  course  were 
collected,  varied  b}^  personages  of  a better  sort : gra}- -coated 
farmers,  and  women  with  their  picturesque  blue  cloaks,  who 
had  trudged  in  from  the  country  probably.  The  court-house 
is  as  beggarl}^  and  ruinous  as  the  rest  of  the  neighborhood ; 
smart-looking  policemen  kept  order  about  it,  and  looked  very 
hard  at  me  as  I ventured  to  take  a sketch. 

The  figures  as  I saw  them  were  accuratel}’  disposed  as  follows  : 
the  man  in  the  dock,  the  policeman  seated  easil}^  above  him, 
the  woman  looking  down  from  a gallery.  The  man  was  accused 
of  stealing  a sack  of  wool,  and,  having  no  counsel,  made  foi’ 
himself  as  adroit  a defence  as  any  one  of  the  counsellors  (they 
are  without  robes  or  wigs  here,  by  the  wa^y,J  could  have  made  for 


46 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


him.  He  had  been  seen  examining  a certain  sack  of  wool  in  a 
coffee-shop  at  Dnngarvan,  and  next  da}"  was  caught  sight  of  in 
Waterford  Market,  standing  under  an  archway  from  the  rain, 
with  the  sack  by  his  side. 

‘‘ Wasn’t  there  twenty  other  people  under  the  arch?”  said 
he  to  a witness,  a noble-looking  beautiful  girl  — the  girl  was 
obliged  to  own  there  were.  “ Did  you  see  me  touch  the  wool, 
or  stand  nearer  to  it  than  a dozen  of  the  dacent  people  there  ? ” 
and  the  girl  confessed  she  had  not.  “ And  this  it  is,  my  lord,” 
says  he  to  the  bench,  “ they  attack  me  because  I am  poor  and 
ragged,  but  they  never  think  of  charging  the  crime  on  a rich 
fanner.” 

But  alas  for  the  defence  ! another  witness  saw  the  prisoner 
with  his  legs  round  the  sack,  and  being  about  to  charge  him 
with  the  theft,  the  prisoner  fled  into  the  arms  of  a policeman, 
to  whom  his  first  words  were,  “•I  know  nothing  about  the 
sack.”  So,  as  the  ^ack  had  been  stolen,  as  he  had  been  seen 
handling  it  four  minutes  before  it  w’as  stolen,  and  holding  it 
for  sale  the  da}^  after,  it  was  coiicluded  that  Patrick  Malony 
had  stolen  the  sack,  and  he  was  accommodated  with  eighteen 
months  according!}'. 

In  another  case  we  had  a woman  and  her  child  on  the  table ; 
and  others  followed,  in  the  judgment  of  which  it  was  impossi- 
ble not  to  admire  the  extreme  leniency,  acuteness,  and  sensi- 
bilit}^  of  the  Judge  presidiug.  Chief  Justice  Penncfather  : — the 
man  against  whom  all  the  Liberals  in  Ireland,  and  every  one 
else  who  has  read  his  chaige  too,  must  be  angry,  for  the  ferocity 
of  his  charge  against  a Belfast  news[)aper  editor.  It  seems  as 
if  no  })arties  here  will  be  dispassionate  when  they  get  to  a party 
question,  and  that  natural  kindness  has  no  claim  when  Whig 
and  Toit  come  into  collision. 

Tlie  witness  is  here  placed  on  a table  instead  of  a witness- 
box  ; nor  was  there  much  farther  i)eculiarity  to  remark,  except 
in  the  dirt  of  the  court,  the  absence  of  tlie  barristerial  wig  and 
gown,  and  the  great  coolness  with  which  a fellow  who.  seemed 
a sort  of  clerk,  usher,  and  Irish  interpreter  to  the  court,  recom- 
mended a prisoner,  who  was  making  rather  a long  defence,  to 
be  quiet.  I asked  him  why  the  man  might  not  have  his  sa}'. 
“ Sure,”  says  he,  ‘‘  lie’s  said  all  he  has  to  sa}',  and  there’s  no 
use  in  any  more.”  But  there  was  no  use  in  attempting  to  con- 
vince Mr.  Usher  that  the  prisoner  was  best  judge  on  this  point: 
in  tact  the  poor  devil  shut  his  mouth  at  the  admonition,  and 
was  found  guilty  with  perfect  justice. 

A considerable  poor-house  has  been  erected  at  Waterford, 


THE  mrsn  sketch  book. 


47 


but  the  beggars  of  the  [)laee  as  yet  i)refer  their  liberty,  and  less 
certain  means  of  gaining  sui)[)ort.  ^Ve  asked  one  who  was  call- 
ing down  all  the  blessings  of  all  the  saints  and  angels  upon  us, 
and  telling  a most  piteous  tale  of  poverty,  wh}’  she  did  not  go 
to  tlie  [)Oor-house.  The  woman’s  look  at  once  changed  from  a 
sentimental  wliine  to  a grin.  “Dey  owe  two  hundred  pounds 
at  dat  house,”  said  she,  and  faith,  an  lionest  woman  can’t 
go  dere.”  With  which  wonderful  reason  ought  not  the  most 
squeamish  to  be  content? 


After  describing,  as  accurately  as  words  may,  the  features 
of  a landscape,  and  stating  that  such  a mountain  was  to  the  left, 
and  such  a river  or  town  to  the  rigid,  and  [)utting  down  the 
situations  and  names  of  the  villages,  and  the  l)earings  of  the 
roads,  it  has  no  doubt  struck  the  reader  of  l)0(4vs  of  travels  that 
the  writer  has  not  given  him  the  slightest  idea  of  the  country, 
and  that  he  would  have  been  just  as  wise  without  [)crusing  the 
letter-[)ress  landscape  through  which  he  has  toiled.  It  will  be 
as  well  then,  under  such  circumstances,  to  spare  the  [)ublic  any 
lengthened  descri[)tion  of  the  road  from  Waterford  to  Dungar- 
van  ; which  was  the  road  we  took,  followed  l)y  benedictions  deliv- 
ered gratis  from  the  beggarhood  of  the  former  cit}’.  Not  veiy  far 
from  it  you  see  the  dark  plantations  of  the  magniticent  domain 
of  Curraghmore,  and  pass  through  a country,  Idiie,  hill}',  and 
bare,  except  where  gentlemen’s  seats  appear  with  their  orna- 
ments of  wood.  Presently,  after  leaving  Waterford,  we  came 
to  a certain  town  called  Kihnacthomas,  of  which  all  the  infor- 
mation I have  to  give  is,  that  it  is  situated  upon  a hill  and  river, 
and  that  you  may  change  hoi’ses  there.  Tlie  I’oad  was  cov- 
ered with  carts  of  seaweed,  which  the  [)eople  were  bringing  for 
manure  from  the  shore  some  four  miles  distant ; and  beyond 
Kilmaetliomas  we  beheld  the  Cumraeragh  Mountains,  “often 
named  in  maps  the  Nennavoulagh,”  either  of  which  names  the 
reader  may  select  at  pleasure. 

Thenee  we  came  to  “ Cushcam,”  at  which  village  be  it  known 
that  the  turnpike-man  kept  the  drag  a very  long  time  waiting. 
“ I think  the  fellow  must  be  'writing  a book,”  said  the  coachman, 
with  a most  severe  look  of  drollery  at  a cockney  tourist,  who 
tried,  under  the  circumstances,  to  blush,  and  not  to  laugh.  I 
wish  I could  relate  or  remember  half  the  mad  jokes  that  flew 
about  among  the  jolly  Irish  crew  on  the  top  of  the  coach,  and 
which  would  have  made  a journey  through  the  Desert  jovial. 


48 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


When  the  ’pike-man  had  finished  his  composition  (that  of  a turn^ 
pike-ticket,  which  he  had  to  fill,)  we  drove  on  to  Dmigarvan  ; the 
two  parts  of  which  town,  separated  bj'  the  river  Colligan,  have 
been  joined  by  a causeway  three  hundred  yards  along,  and  a 
bridge  erected  at  an  enormous  outlay  by  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire. In  former  times,  before  his  Grace  spent  his  eighW 
thousand  pounds  upon  the  causewk}’,  this  wide  estuarj^  was 
called  “ Dungarvan  Prospect,”  because  the  ladies  of  the  coun- 
try, walking  over  the  river  at  low  water,  took  off  their  shoes 
and  stockings  (such  as  had  them),  and  tucking  up  their  clothes, 
exhibited  — what  I have  never  seen,  and  cannot  therefore  be 
expected  to  describe.  A large  and  handsome  Catholic  chapel, 
a square  with  some  pretensions  to  regularity  of  building,  a very 
neat  and  comfortable  inn,  and  beggars  and  idlers  still  more 
numerous  than  at  Waterford,  were  what  we  had  leisure  to  re- 
mark in  half  an  hour’s  stroll  through  the  town. 

Near  the  prettil}’  situated  village  of  Cappoquin  is  the  Trap- 
pist  House  of  Mount  Meilleraic,  of  which  we  could  only  see  the 
pinnacles.  The  brethren  were  [)rcsented  some  years  since  with 
a barren  mountain,  whicli  they  have  cultivated  most  success- 
fully. The}'  have  among  themselves  workmen  to  supply  all 
their  frugal  wants  : ghostly  tailors  and  shoemakers,  spiritual 
gardeners  and  bakers,  working  in  silence,  and  serving  heaven 
after  their  way.  If  this  reverend  community,  for  fear  of  the 
o[)[)ortunity  of  sinful  talk,  choose  to  hold  their  tongues,  the 
next  thing  will  be  to  cut  them  out  altogether,  and  so  render 
the  danger  impossible  : if,  being  men  of  education  and  intel- 
ligence, they  incline  to  turn  butchers  and  cobblers,  and  smother 
their  intellects  by  base  and  hard  menial  labor,  who  knows  but 
one  day  a sect  may  be  more  pious  still,  and  rejecting  even 
butchery  and  l)akery  as  savoring  too  much  of  worldly  con- 
venience and  pride,  take  to  a wild-beast  life  at  once?  Let  us 
concede  that  suffering,  and  mental  and  bodily  debasement,  are 
the  things  most  agreeable  to  heaven,  and  there  is  no  knowing 
where  such  piety  may  stop.  I was  very  glad  we  had  not  time 
to  see  the  grovelling  place  ; and  as  for  seeing  shoes  made  or 
fields  tilled  by  reverend  amateurs,  we  can  find  cobblers  and 
ploughboys  to  do  the  work  better. 

By  the  way,  the  Quakers  have  set  up  in  Ireland  a sort  of 
monkery  of  their  own.  Not  far  from  C'arlow  we  met  a couple 
of  cars  drawn  by  white  horses,  and  holding  white  Quakers  and 
Quakeresses,  in  white  hats,  clothes,  shoes,  with  wild  maniacal- 
looking  faces,  bum[)ing  along  the  road.  Let  us  hope  that  we 
may  soon  get  a community  of  Fakeers  and  howling  Dervishes 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  liOOK. 


40 


into  the  country.  It  would  he  a refreshing  thing  to  see  such 
ghostl}'  men  in  one’s  travels,  standing  at  the  corners  of  roads 
and  praising  the  Lord  hy  standing  on  one  leg,  or  cutting  and 
hacking  themselves  with  knives  like  the  [irophets  of  Haal.  Is  it 
not  as  [)ious  for  a man  to  de[>rive  himself  of  his  leg  as  of  his 
tongue,  and  to  disfigure  his  body  with  the  gashes  of  a knife,  as 
with  the  hideous  white  raiment  of  the  illuminated  (Quakers? 

While  these  reflections  were  going  on,  the  beautiful  Black- 
water  river  suddenly  opened  before  us,  and  driving  along  it  for 
three  miles  through  some  of  the  most  beautiful,  rich  country 
ever  seen,  we  came  to  Lismore.  Nothing  can  be  certainly  more 
magnificent  than  this  drive.  Parks  and  I'ocks  covered  with  the 
grandest  foliage  ; rich,  handsome  seats  of*  gentlemen  in  the 
midst  of  fair  lawns  and  beautiful  bright  [ilantations  and  shrub- 
beries ; and  at  the  end,  the  graceful  s[)ire  of  Lismore  church, 
the  [irettiest  1 have  seen  in,  or,  I think,  out  of  Ireland.  Nor 
in  any  country  that  I have  visiUal  have  4 seen  a view  more 
noble  — it  is  too  rich  and  peaceful  to  be  what  is  called  roman- 
tic, but  lofty,  large,  and  (jenerons,  if  the  term  may  be  used  ; the 
river  and  banks  as  fine  as  the  Rhine  ; the  castle  not  as  large, 
hut  as  noble  and  pictures(pie  as  ^Varwick.  As  you  pass  the 
bridge,  the  banks  stretch  away  on  either  side  in  amazing  ver- 
dure, and  the  castle- walks  remind  one  somewhat  of  the  dear 
old  terrace  of  St.  Germains,  with  its  groves,  and  long  grave 
avenues  of  trees. 

The  salmon-fishery  of  the  Blackwater  is  let,  as  I hear,  for  a 
thousand  a year.  In  the  evening,  however,  we  saw  some  gen- 
tlemen who  are  likely  to  curtail  the  profits  of  tlie  farmej’  of  the 
fishery  — a company  of  ragged  boys,  to  wit  — whose  occupation, 
it  appears,  is  to  poach.  These  young  fellows  were  all  lolling 
over  the  bridge,  as  the  moon  rose  rather  mistih',  and  pretended 
to  be  deeply  enamored  of  the  view  of  the  river.  They  answered 
the  questions  of  one  of  our  party  with  the  utmost  innocence  and 
openness,  and  one  would  have  supposed  the  lads  were  so  many 
Arcadians,  but  for  the  arrival  of  an  old  woman,  who,  suddenly 
coming  up  among  them,  poured  out,  upon  one  and  all,  a volley 
of  curses,  both  deep  and  loud,  saying  that  perdition  would  be 
their  portion,  and  calling  them  shchamers  ” at  least  a hundred 
times.  IMiicli  to  my  wonder,  the  .young  men  did  not  reply  to 
the  voluble  old  lady  for  some  time,  who  then  told  us  the  cause 
of  her  anger.  She  had  a son,  — “ Look  at  him  there,  the  vil- 
lain.” The  lad  was  standing,  looking  very  unhapp^^  “His 
father,  that’s  now  dead,  paid  a fistful  of  money  to  bind  him 
’prentice  at  Dungarvan  : but  these  shchamers  followed  him 

4 


50 


THE  lEIsn  SRETCIl  BOOK. 


there ; made  him  break  his  iiKleiitiires,  and  go  poaching  and 
thieving  and  shchaming  with  them.”  The  poor  old  woman  shook 
her  hands  in  the  air,  and  shouted  at  the  top  of  her  deep  voice : 
there  was  something  very  tonching  in  her  grotesque  sorrow ; 
nor  did  the  lads  make  light  of  it  at  all,  contenting  themselves 
with  a surly  growl,  or  an  oath,  if  directly  appealed  to  by  the 
poor  creature. 

So,  cursing  and  raging,  the  woman  went  away.  The  son,  a 
lad  of  fourteen,  evidently  the  fag  of  the  big  bullies  round  about 
him,  stood  dismally  awa}^  from  them,  his  head  sunk  down.  I 
went  up  and  asked  him,  “Was  that  his  mother?”  He  said, 
“Yes.”  “ AYas  she  good  and  kind  to  him  when  he  was  at 
home?  ” He  said,  “ Oh  yes.”  “ Why  not  come  back  to  her?  ” 
I asked  him  ; but  he  said  “he  couldn’t.”  AVhereupon  I took 
his  arm,  and  tried  to  lead  him  awa}"  by  main  force ; but  he  said, 
“Thank  you,  sir,  but  I can’t  go  back,”  and  released  his  arm. 
We  stood  on  the  bridge  some  minutes  longer,  looking  at  the 
view  ; but  the  boy,  though  he  kept  awa}^  from  his  comrades, 
would  not  come.  I wonder  what  the}'  have  done  together,  that 
the  poor  boy  is  past  going  home  ? The  place  seemed  to  be  so 
quiet  and  beautiful,  and  far  away  from  London,  that  I thought 
crime  couldn’t  have  reached  it ; and  yet  here  it  lurks  somewhere 
among  six  boys  of  sixteen,  each  with  a stain  in  his  heart,  and 
some  black  history  to  tell.  The  poor  widow’s  yonder  was  the 
only  family  about  which  I had  a chance  of  knowing  anything 
in  tliis  remote  place  ; na}',  in  all  Ireland : and  God  help  us,  hers 
was  a sad  lot ! — a husband  gone  dead,  — an  only  child  gone  to 
ruin.  It  is  awful  to  think  that  there  are  eight  millions  of  stories 
to  be  told  in  this  island.  Seven  million  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety-eight  more  lives 
that  i,  and  all  brother  cockneys,  know  nothing  about.  Well, 
please  God,  they  are  not  all  like  this. 

That  day  I heard  another'  history.  A little  old  disreputable 
man  in  tatters,  with  a huge  steeple  of  a hat,  came  shambling 
down  the  street,  one  among  the  five  hundred  blackguards  there. 
A fellow  standing  under  the  “ Sun  ” portico.(A  sort  of  swagger- 
ing, chattering,  cringing  iouter^  and  master  of  ceremonies  to  the 
gutter,)  told  us  something  wfith  regard  to  the  old  disreputable 
man.  His  son  had  been  hanged  the  day  before  at  Clonmel,  foi 
one  of  the  Tipperary  murders.  That  blackguard  in  our  e}’es 
instantly  looked  quite  different  from  all  other  blackguards : I 
saw  him  gesticulating  at  the  corner  of  a street,  and  watched 
him  with  wonderful  interest. 

The  church  with  the  handsome  spire  that  looks  so  graceful 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


51 


among  the  trees,  is  a cathedral  church,  and  one  of  the  neatest- 
kept  and  prettiest  edifices  I have  seen  in  Ireland.  In  the  old 
graveyard  Protestants  and  Catholics  lie  together  — that  is,  not 
together ; for  each  has  a side  of  the  ground  where  they  sleep, 
and,  so  occupied,  do  not  quarrel.  The  sun  was  shining  down 
upon  the  brilliant  grass  — and  I don’t  think  the  shadows  of  the 
Ih’otestant  graves  were  an}"  longer  or  shorter  than  those  of  the 
Catholics ! Is  it  the  right  or  the  left  side  of  the  graveyard 
which  is  nearest  heaven  I wonder?  Look,  the  sun  shines  upon 
both  alike,  “ and  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all.” 

Raleigh’s  house  is  approached  by  a grave  old  avenue,  and 
well-kept  wall,  such  as  is  rare  in  this  country  ; and  the  court  of 
the  castle  within  has  the  solid,  comfortable,  quiet  look,  equally 
rare.  It  is  like  one  of  our  colleges  at  Oxford  : there  is  a side 
of  the  quadrangle  with  pretty  iv3"-covered  gables  ; another  part 
of  the  square  is  more  modern  ; and  by  the  main  body  of  the 
castle  is  a small  chapel  exceedingly  picturesque.  The  interior 
is  neat  and  in  excellent  order ; but  it  w^as  unluckily  done  up 
some  thirty  years  ago  (as  I imagine  from  the  style),  before  our 
architects  had  learned  Gothic,  and  all  the  ornamental  work  is 
consequently  quite  ugly  and  out  of  keeping.  The  church  has 
probably  been  arranged  b}"  the  same  hand.  In  the  castle  are 
some  plaiidy-furnished  chamljcrs,  one  or  two  good  pictures,  and 
a couple  of  oriel  windows,  the  views  from  which  up  and  down 
the  river  are  exceeding!}^  loveh\  You  hear  praises  of  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire  as  a landlord  wherever  you  go  among  his  vast 
estates:  it  is  a pity  that,  with  such  a noble  residence  as  this, 
and  with  such  a w"onderful  country  round  about  it,  his  Grace 
should  not  inhabit  it  more. 

Of  the  road  from  Lismore  to  Fermoy  it  does  not  behove 
me  to  say  much,  for  a pelting  rain  came  on  very  soon  after  we 
quitted  the  former  place,  and  accompanied  us  almost  without 
ceasing  to  Fermoy.  Here  we  had  a glimpse  of  a bridge  across 
the  Biackwater,  which  we  had  skirted  in  our  journey  from  Lis- 
more. Now  enveloped  in  mist  and  cloud,  now  spanned  by  a 
rainbow,  at  another  time,  basking  in  sunshine.  Nature  attired 
the  charming  prospect  for  us  in  a score  of  different  ways  ; and 
it  appeared  before  us  like  a coquettish  beauty  who  was  trying 
what  dress  in  her  wardrobe  might  most  become  her.  At  Fer- 
moy we  saw  a vast  barrack,  and  an  overgrown  inn,  where, 
however,  good  fare  was  provided  ; and  thence  hastening  came 
by  Rathcormack,  and  Watergrass  Hill,  famous  for  the  residence 
of  Father  Front,  whom  in}"  friend  the  Rev.  Francis  Sylvester 
has  made  immortal ; from  which  descending  we  arrived  at  the 


52 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


beautiful  wooded  village  of  Glanmire,  with  its  mills,  and 
steeples,  and  streams,  and  neat  school-houses,  and  pleasant 
countiy  residences.  This  brings  us  down  upon  the  superb 
stream  which  leads  from  the  sea  to  Cork. 

The  view  for  three  miles  on  both  sides  is  magnificently  beau- 
tiful. Fine  gardens,  and  parks,  and  villas  cover  the  shore  on 
each  bank  ; the  river  is  full  of  brisk  craft  moving  to  the  city  or 
out  to  sea ; and  the  city  finely  ends  the  view,  rising  upon  two 
hills  on  either  side  of  the  stream.  I do  not  know  a town  to 
which  there  is  an  entrance  more  beautiful,  commodious,  and 
stately. 

Passing  by  numberless  handsome  lodges,  and  nearer  the 
cit}%  many  terraces  in  neat  order,  the  road  conducts  us  near  a 
large  tract  of  some  hundred  acres  which  have  been  reclaimed 
from  the  sea,  and  are  destined  to  form  a park  and  pleasure- 
ground  for  the  citizens  of  Cork.  In  the  river,  and  up  to  the 
bridge,  some  hundreds  of  ships  were  Ijdng ; and  a fleet  of 
steamboats  opposite  the  handsome  house  of  the  St.  George’s 
Steam-Packet  Company.  A church  stands  prettily  on  the  hill 
above  it,  surrounded  by  a number  of  new  habitations  very  neat 
and  white.  On  the  road  is  a handsome  Roman  Catholic  chapel, 
or  a chapel  which  will  be  handsome  so  soon  as  the  necessary 
funds  are  raised  to  complete  it.  But,  as  at  W aterford,  the 
chapel  has  been  commenced,  and  the  money  has  failed,  and  the 
fine  portico  which  is  to  decorate  it  one  day,  as  yet  only  exists 
on  the  architect’s  paper.  Saint  Patrick’s  Bridge,  over  which  we 
pass,  is  a i)retty  l)uilding;  and  Patrick  Street,  the  main  street 
of  the  town,  has  an  air  of  business  and  cheerfulness,  and  looks 
densely  thronged. 

As  the  carriage  drove  up  to  those  neat,  comfortable,  and  ex- 
tensive lodgings  which  Mrs.  MacO’Boy  has  to  let,  a magnificent 
mob  was  formed  round  the  veh.icle,  and  we  had  an  opportunity 
of  at  once  making  acquaintance  with  some  of  the  dirtiest  rascally 
faces  that  all  Ireland  presents.  Besides  these  professional 
rogues  and  beggars,  who  make  a point  to  attend  on  all  vehi- 
cles, eveiybod}’  else  seemed  to  stop  too,  to  see  that  wonder,  a 
coach  and  four  horses.  I^eople  Issued  from  their  shops,  heads 
appeared  at  windows.  I have  seen  the  Queen  pass  in  state  in 
London,  and  not  bring  together  a crowd  near  so  great  as  that 
wliich  assembled  in  the  busiest  street  of  the  second  cit}'  of  the 
kingdom,  just  to  look  at  a green  coach  and  four  bay  horses. 
Have  they  nothing  else  to  do?  — or  is  it  that  they  will  do 
notliing  but  stare,  swagger,  and  be  idle  in  the  streets? 


THE  miSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


53 


CHAPTER  V. 

CORK THE  AGRICULTURAL  SHOW  — FATHER  MATHEW. 

A MAN  lias  no  need  to  be  an  agrienltnrist  in  order  to  take  a 
warm  interest  in  the  success  of  the  Irish  Agricultural  Society, 
and  to  see  what  vast  good  may  result  from  it  to  the  country. 
Tlie  National  Education  scheme — a noble  and  liberal  one,  at 
least  as  far  as  a stranger  can  see,  which  might  have  united  the 
Irish  people,  and  brought  peace  into  tliis  most  distracted  of  all 
countries  — failed  unhap[)il3'  of  one  of  its  greatest  ends.  The 
I^rotestant  clergy  have  alwTws  treated  the  plan  with  bitter  hos- 
tilit3' : and  1 do  believe,  in  withdrawing  from  it,  have  struck 
the  greatest  blow  to  themselves  as  a body,  and  to  their  own 
influence  in  the  countiy,  which  has  been  dealt  to  them  for  many 
a 3'ear.  Rich,  charitable,  pious,  well-educated,  to  be  found  in 
every  parish  in  Ireland,  had  tlie3^  chosen  to  fraternize  with  the 
people  and  the  plan,  they  might  have  directed  the  educational 
movement ; they  might  have  attained  the  influence  which  is  now 
given  over  entirely  to  the  priest ; and  when  the  present  genera- 
tion, educated  in  the  national  schools,  were  grown  up  to  man- 
hood, the3’  might  have  had  an  interest  in  almost  eveiy  man  in 
Ireland.  Are  the3"  as  pious,  and  more  polished,  and  better 
educated  than  their  neighbors  the  priests  ? There  is  no  doubt 
of  it ; and  b3'  constant  communion  with  the  people,  the3’  would 
have  gained  all  the  benefits  of  the  comparison,  and  advanced 
the  interests  of  their  religion  far  more  than  now  they  can  hope 
to  do.  Look  at  the  national  school : throughout  the  countiy  it 
is  commonly  133^  the  chapel  side  — it  is  a Catholic  school,  directed 
and  fostered  by  the  priest ; and  as  no  people  are  more  eager  for 
learning,  more  apt  to  receive  it,  or  more  grateful  for  kindness 
than  the  Irish,  he  gets  all  the  gratitude  of  the  scholars  who 
flock  to  the  school,  and  all  the  future  influence  over  them,  which 
naturall3"  and  justty  comes  to  him.  The  Protestant  wants  to 
better  the  condition  of  these  people  : he  sa3’s  that  the  woes  of 
the  country  are  owing  to  its  prevalent  religion  ; and  in  order 
to  carry  his  plans  of  amelioration  into  effect,  he  obstinately 
refuses  to  hold  communion  with  those  whom  he  is  desirous  to 
convert  to  what  he  believes  are  sounder  principles  and  purer 
doctrines.  The  clergyman  will  repl3^,  that  points  of  principle 
prevented  him : with  this  fatal  doctrinal  objection,  it  is  not,  of 


54 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


course,  the  province  of  a la3'man  to  meddle ; but  this  is  clear, 
that  the  parson  might  have  had  an  influence  over  the  country, 
and  he  would  not ; that  he  might  have  rendered  the  Catholic 
population  friendly"  to  him,  and  he  would  not ; but,  instead,  has 
added  one  cause  of  estrangement  and  hostilit}"  more  to  the  many 
which  alreadv'  existed  against  him.  This  is  one  of  the  attempts 
at  union  in  Ireland,  and  one  can’t  but  think  with  the  deepest 
regret  and  sorrow  of  its  failure. 

Mr.  O’Connell  and  his  friends  set  going  another  scheme  for 
advancing  the  prosperity"  of  the  countiy,  — the  notable  project 
of  home  manufactures,  and  of  a coalition  against  foreign  impor- 
tation. This  was  a union  certainly",  but  a union  of  a different 
sort  to  that  noble  and  peaceful  one  which  the  National  Educa- 
tion Board  proposed.  It  was  to  punish  England,  while  it  pre- 
tended to  secure  the  independence  of  Ireland,  by  shutting  out 
our  manufactures  from  the  Irish  markets  ; which  were  one  day 
or  other,  it  was  presumed,  to  be  filled  by^  native  produce.  Large 
bodies  of  tradesmen  and  private  persons  in  Dublin  and  other 
towns  in  Ireland  associated  together,  vowing  to  purchase  no 
articles  of  ordinary  consumption  or  usage  but  what  were  manu- 
factured in  the  country.  This  bigoted,  old-world  scheme  of 
restriction  — not  much  more  liberal  than  Swing’s  crusade  against 
the  threshing-machines,  or  the  coalitions  in  England  against  ma- 
chinery— failed,  as  it  deserved  to  do.  For  the  benefit  of  a few 
tradesmen,  who  might  find  their  account  in  selling  at  dear  rates 
their  clumsy  and  imperfect  manufactures,  it  was  found  impossi- 
ble to  tax  a people  that  are  already"  poor  enough ; nor  did  the 
party  take  into  account  the  cleverness  of  the  merchants  across 
sea,  who  were  by^  no  n;eans  disposed  to  let  go  their  Irish  cus- 
tomers. The  famous  Irish  frieze  uniform  which  was  to  distin- 
guish these  patriots,  and  which  Mr.  O’Connell  lauded  so  loudly 
and  so  simply",  came  over  made  at  half-price  from  Leeds  and 
Glasgow,  and  was  retailed  as  real  Irish  by  many  worthies  who 
had  been  first  to  join  the  union.  You  may"  still  see  shops  here 
and  there  with  their  pompous  announcement  of  “Irish  Manu- 
factures ; ” but  the  scheme  is  long  gone  to  ruin : it  could  not 
stand  against  the  vast  force  of  English  and  Scotch  capital  and 
machinery",  any  more  than  the  Ulster  spinning-wheel  against 
the  huge  factories  and  steam-engines  which  one  may  see  about 
Belfast. 

The  scheme  of  the  Agricultural  Society  is  a much  more  feasi- 
ble one  ; and  if,  please  God,  it  can  be  carried  out,  likely  to  give 
not  only  prosperity  to  the  country",  but  union  likewise  in  a great 
degree.  As  yet  Protestants  and  Catholics  concerned  in  it  have 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


55 


worked  well  together ; and  it  is  a blessing  to  see  them  meet 
upon  any  ground  without  heartburning  and  quarrelling.  Last 
year,  Mr.  Purcell,  who  is  well  known  in  Ireland  as  the  principal 
mail-coach  contractor  for  the  country,  — who  himself  employs 
more  workmen  in  Dublin  than  perhaps  any  other  person  there, 
and  has  also  more  land  under  cultivation  than  most  of  the  great 
landed  proprietors  in  the  countiy,  — wrote  a letter  to  the  news- 
papers, giving  his  notions  of  the  fallacj'  of  the  exclusive-dealing 
system,  and  pointing  out  at  the  same  time  how  he  considered 
the  country  might  be  benefited  — 1>3'  agricultural  improvement, 
niamely.  He  spoke  of  the  neglected  state  of  the  country,  and 
its  amazing  natural  fertility  ; and,  for  the  benefit  of  all,  called 
upon  the  landlords  and  landholders  to  use  their  interest  and 
develop  its  vast  agricultural  resources.  Manufactures  are  at 
best  but  of  slow  growth,  and  demand  not  onl}'  time,  but  capi- 
tal ; meanwhile,  until  the  habits  of  the  people  should  grow  to 
be  such  as  to  render  manufaccures  feasible,  there  was  a great 
neglected  treasure,  lying  under  their  feet,  which  might  be  the 
source  of  prosperit}^  to  all.  He  pointed  out  the  superior  meth- 
ods of  husbandry  employed  in  Scotland  and  England,  and  the 
great  results  obtained  upon  soils  naturally  much  poorer ; and, 
taking  the  Highland  Society  for  an  example,  the  establishment 
of  which  had  done  so  much  for  the  prosperit3'  of  Scotland,  he 
proposed  the  formation  in  Ireland  of  a similar  association. 

The  letter  made  an  extraordinaiy  sensation  throughout  the 
countr\'.  Noblemen  and  gentiy  of  all  sides  took  it  up ; and 
numbers  of  these  wrote  to  Mr.  Purcell,  and  gave  him  their 
cordial  adhesion  to  the  plan.  A meeting  was  held,  and  the 
Society  formed  : subscriptions  were  set  on  foot,  headed  by  the 
Lord  Lieutenant  (Fortescue)  and  the  Duke  of  Leinster,  each 
with  a donation  of  200/.  ; and  the  trustees  had  soon  5,000/.  at 
their  disposal:  with,  besides,  an  annual  revenue  of  1,000/. 
The  subscribed  capital  is  funded  ; and  political  subjects  strictl}" 
excluded.  The  Societ}^  has  a show  ^^earl}"  in  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal towns  of  Ireland : it  corresponds  with  the  various  local 
agricultural  associations  throughout  the  country  ; encourages 
the  formation  of  new  ones  ; and  distributes  prizes  and  rewards. 
It  has  further  in  contemplation,  to  establish  a large  Agricultural 
school  for  farmers’  sons  ; and  has  formed  in  Dublin  an  Agricul- 
tural Bazaar  and  Museum. 


It  was  the  first  meeting  of  the  Soeiety  which  we  were  come 
to  see  at  Cork.  Will  it  be  able  to  carry  its  excellent  intentions 


56 


THE 'IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


into  effect?  Will  the  present  entlmsiasin  of  its  founders  and 
members  continue?  Will  one  political  party  or  another  get. the 
upper  hand  in  it?  One  can’t  help  thinking  of  these  points  with 
some  anxiet}^  — of  the  latter  especially:  as  yet,  happil^^,  the 
clei'gy  of  either  side  have  kept  aloof,  and  the  union  seems  pretty 
cordial  and  sincere. 

There  are  in  Cork,  as  no  doubt  in  every  town  of  Ireland 
sufliciently  considerable  to  support  a plurality  of  hotels,  some 
especiall}'  devoted  to  the  Conservative  and  Liberal  pai'ties. 
Two  dinners  were  to  be  given  apropos  of  the  Agricultural 
meeting ; and  in  order  to  conciliate  all  parties,  it  was  deter- 
mined that  the  Tory  landlord  should  find  the  cheap  ten-shilling 
dinner  for  one  thousand,  the  Whig  landlord  the  genteel  guinea 
dinner  for  a few  select  hundreds. 

I wish  Mr.  Cuff,  of  the  “Freemasons’  Tavern,”  could  have 
been  at  Cork  to  take  a lesson  from  the  latter  gentleman : for 
he  would  have  seen  that  there  are  means  of  having  not  merely 
enough  to  eat,  but  enough  of  the  very  best,  for  the  sum  of  q 
guinea ; that  persons  can  have  not  onl}'  wine,  but  good  wine, 
and  if  inclined  (as  some  topers  are  on  great  occasions)  to  pass 
to  another  bottle,  — a second,  a third,  or  a fifteenth  bottle,  for 
what  I know  is  veiy  much  at  their  service.  It  was  a fine  sight 
to  see  Mr.  MacDowall  presiding  over  an  ice-well  and  extracting 
the  bottles  of  champagne.  With  what  calmness  he  did  it! 
How  the  corks  popped,  and  the  liquor  fizzed,  and  the  agricul- 
turalists drank  the  bumpers  off!  And  how  good  the  wine  was 
too  — the  greatest  merit  of  all ! Mr.  MacDowall  did  credit  to 
his  liberal  politics  l\y  his  liberal  dinner. 

“ Sir,”  sa}’s  a waiter  whom  I asked  for  currant-jell}^  for  the 
haunch  — (there  were  a dozen  such  smoking  on  various  parts 
of  the  table  — think  of  that,  Mr.  Cuff!)  — “Sir,”  saj's  the 
waiter,  “there’s  no  jell}^  but  I’ve  brought  you  some  very  fine 
lohster-sauce.''  I think  this  was  the  most  remarkable  speech 
of  the  evening ; not  excepting  that  of  my  Lord  Bernard,  who, 
to  three  hundred  gentlemen  more  or  less  connected  with  farm- 
ing, had  actually  the  audacit}^  to  quote  the  words  of  the  great 
agricultural  poet  of  Rome  — 

“ 0 fortunatos  nimium  sua  si,”  ^c. 

How  long  are  our  statesmen  in  England  to  continue  to  back 
their  opinions  by  the  Latin  grammar?  Are  the  Irish  agricul- 
turalists so  very  happy,  if  they  did  but  know  it  — at  least  those 
out  of  doors?  Well,  those  within  were  jolly  enough.  Cham- 
pagne and  claret,  turbot  and  haunch,  are  gifts  of  the  jmtissima 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


57 


telliis^  with  which  few  liusbandmen  will  be  disposed  to  quarrel: 
— no  more  let  us  quarrel  either  with  eloquence  after  dinner. 

If  the  Liberal  landlord  had  shown  his  principles  in  his  dinner, 
the  Conservative  certainly  showed  his  ; by  conserving  as  much 
[)roIit  as  possible  for  himself.  We  sat  down  one  thousand  to 
some  two  hundred  and  tirty  cold  joints  of  meat.  Every  man 
was  treated  with  a pint  of  wine,  and  very  bad  too,  so  that  there 
was  the  less  cause  to  grumble  because  more  was  not  served. 
Those  agriculturalists  who  had  a mind  to  drink  whiskey-and- 
water  had  to  pay  extra  for  their  punch.  Nay,  after  shouting 
in  vain  for  half  an  hour  to  a waiter  for  some  cold  water,  the 
unhappy  writer  could  only  get  it  by  promising  a shilling.  The 
sum  was  paid  on  delivery  of  the  article  ; but  as  everybody 
round  was  thirsty  too,  1 got  but  a glassful  from  the  decanter, 
which  Old}’  served  to  make  me  long  for  more.  The  waiter  (the 
rascal ! ) promised  more,  but  never  came  near  us  afterwards : 
he  had  got  his  shilling,  and  so  he  left  us  in  a hot  room,  sur- 
rounded by  a thousand  hot  fellow-creatures,  one  of  them  mak- 
ing a dry  speech.  The  agriculturalists  were  not  on  this 
occasion  nimiiun  fortunati. 

To  have  heard  a nobleman,  however,  who  discoursed  to  the 
meeting,  3’ou  would  have  fancied  that  we  were  the  luckiest 
mortals  under  the  broiling  July  sun.  He  said  he  could  con- 
ceive nothing  more  delightful  than  to  see,  '‘on  proper  occa- 
sions,”— (mind,  on  proper  occasions  !)  — " the  landlord  mixing 
with  his  teiiantiT  ; and  to  look  around  him  at  a scene  like  this, 
and  see  the  condescension  with  which  ihe  gently  mingled  with 
the  farmers  ! ” Prodigious  condescension  trul}" ! This  neat 
speech  seemed  to  me  an  oratoric  slap  on  the  face  to  about  nine 
hundred  and  seventy  persons  present ; and  being  one  of  the 
latter,  1 began  to  hiss  b}'  way  of  acknowledgment  of  the  com- 
pliment, and  hoped  that  a strong  party  would  have  destro^^ed 
the  harmony  of  the  evening,  and  done  likewise.  But  not  one 
hereditary  bondsman  would  join  in  the  compliment  — and  they 
were  quite  right  too.  The  old  lord  who  talked  about  conde- 
scension is  one  of  tlie  greatest  and  kindest  landlords  in  Ireland. 
If  he  thinks  he  condescends  by  doing  his  duty  and  mixing  with 
men  as  good  as  himself,  the  fault  lies  with  the  latter.  Why^ 
are  they  so  ready^  to  go  down  on  their  knees  to  my  lord  ? A 
man  can’t  help  “condescending”  to  another  wdio  will  persist 
in  kissing  his  shoestrings.  TheyM’espect  rank  in  England  — 
the  people  seem  almost  to  adore  it  here. 

As  an  instance  of  the  intense  veneration  for  lords  which  dis- 
tinguishes this  county^  of  Cork,  I may-  mention  what  occurred 


58 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


afterwards.  The  members  of  the  Cork  Society  gave  a dinner 
to  their  guests  of  the  Irish  Agricultural  Association.  The 
founder  of  the  latter,  as  Lord  Downshire  stated,  was  Mr.  Pur- 
cell : and  as  it  was  agreed  on  all  hands  that  the  Society  so 
founded  was  likely'  to  prove  of  the  greatest  benefit  to  the 
countiy,  one  might  have  supposed  that  anj^  compliment  paid  to 
it  might  have  been  paid  to  it  through  its  founder.  Not  so. 
The  Society  asked  the  lords  to  dine,  and  Mr.  Purcell  to  meet 
the  lords. 

After  the  grand  dinner  came  a grand  ball,  which  was  indeed 
one  of  the  ga}’^est  and  prettiest  sights  ever  seen ; nor  was  it 
the  less  agreeable,  because  the  ladies  of  the  city  mixed  with 
the  ladies  from  the  country,  and  vied  with  them  in  grace  and 
beaut3\  The  charming  gayety  and  frankness  of  the  Irish  ladies 
have  been  noted  and  admired  by  eveiy  foreigner  who  has  had 
the  good  fortune  to  mingle  in  their  society  ; and  I hope  it  is 
not  detracting  from  the  merit  of  the  upper  classes  to  say  that 
the  lower  are  not  a whit  less  pleasing.  I never  saw  in  any 
countiy  such  a general  grace  of  manner  and  ladyhood.  In  the 
midst  of  their  ga3^ety,  too,  it  must  be  remembered  that  thej^ 
are  the  chastest  of  women,  and  that  no  country  in  Europe  can 
boast  of  such  a general  purity. 

In  regard  of  the  Munster  ladies,  I had  the  pleasure  to  be 
present  at  two  or  three  evening-parties  at  Cork,  and  must  say 
that  the}^  seem  to  excel  the  English  ladies  not  only  in  wit  and 
vivacity,  but  in  the  still  more  important  article  of  the  toilette. 
They  are  as  well  dressed  as  Frenchwomen,  and  incomparably 
handsomer ; and  if  ever  this  book  reaches  a thirtieth  edition, 
and  I can  find  out  better  words  to  express  admiration,  they 
shall  be  inserted  here.  Among  the  ladies’  accomplishments,  I 
may  mention  that  I have  heard  in  two  or  three  private  families 
such  fine  music  as  is  rare!}'  to  be  met  with  out  of  a capital.  In 
one  house  we  liad  a supper  and  songs  afterwards,  in  the  old 
honest  fashion.  Time  was  in  Ireland  when  the  custom  was  a 
common  one  ; but  the  world  grows  languid  as  it  grows  genteel ; 
and  I fancy  it  requires  more  than  ordinary  spirit  and  courage 
now  for  a good  old  gentleman,  at  the  head  of  his  kind  family 
table,  to  strike  up  a good  old  famity  song. 

The  delightful  old  gentleman  who  sung  the  song  here  men- 
tioned could  not  help  talking  of  the  Temperance  movement 
with  a sort  of  regret,  and  said  that  all  the  fun  had  gone  out  of 
Ireland  since  Father  Mathew  banished  the  whiskey  from  it. 
Indeed,  an}'  stranger  going  amongst  the  people  can  perceive 
that  they  are  now  anything  but  gay.  I have  seen  a great  num- 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  TOOK. 


59 


ber  of  crowds  and  meetings  of  people  in  all  parts  of  Ireland,  and 
found  them  all  gloom)'.  There  is  nothing  like  the  merry-mak- 
ing one  reads  of  in  the  Irish  novels.  Lever  and  Maxwell  must 
be  taken  as  chroniclers  of  the  old  times  — the  pleasant  but 
wrong  old  times  — for  which  one  can’t  help  having  an  anti- 
quarian fondness. 

On  the  day  we  arrived  at  Cork,  and  as  the  passengers  de- 
scended from  “the  drag,”  a stout,  handsome,  honest-looking 
man,  of  some  two-and-foily  vears,  was  passing  by,  and  re- 
ceived a number  of  bows  from  the  crowd  ai'ound.  It  was  Theo- 
bald Mathew,  with  wliose  face  a thousand  little  print-shop 
windows  had  alread}'  rendered  me  familiar.  He  shook  hands 
with  the  master  of  tlie  carriage  very  cordially,  and  just  as  cor- 
diall}'  vvith  the  master’s  coachman,  a disciple  of  temperance,  as 
at  least  half  Ireland  is  at  present.  The  day  after  the  famous 
dinner  at  MacHowall’s,  some  of  us  came  down  rather  late,  per- 
haps in  consequence  of  the  events  of  the  night  before  — (I  think 
it  was  Lord  Bernard’s  quotation  from  Virgil,  or  else  the  absence 
of  the  currant-jell}'  for  the  venison,  that  occasioned  a slight 
headache  among  some  of  us,  and  an  extreme  longing  for  soda- 
water,)  — and  there  was  the  Apostle  of  Temperance  seated  at 
the  table  drinking  tea.  Some  of  us  felt  a little  ashamed  of  our- 
selves, and  did  not  like  to  ask  somehow  for  the  soda-water  in 
such  an  awful  presence  as  that.  Besides,  it  would  have  been 
a confession  to  a Catholic  priest,  and,  as  a Protestant,  I am 
above  it. 

The  world  likes  to  know  how  a great  man  appears  even  to 
a valet-de-chambre,  and  I suppose  it  is  one’s  vanity  that  is  flat- 
tered in  such  rare  company  to  find  the  great  man  quite  as  un- 
assuming as  the  very  smallest  personage  present ; and  so  like 
to  other  mortals,  that  we  would  not  know  him  to  be  a great 
man  at  all,  did  we  not  know  his  name,  and  what  he  had  done. 
There  is  nothing  remarkable  in  Mr.  Mathew’s  manner,  except 
that  it  is  exceedingly  simple,  hearty,  and  manly,  and  that  he 
does  not  wear  the  downcast,  demure  look  which,  I know  not 
why,  certainly  characterizes  the  chief  part  of  the  gentlemen  ot 
his  profession.  Whence  comes  that  general  scowl  which  dark- 
ens the  faces  of  the  Irish  priesthood  ? I have  met  a score  of 
these  reverend  gentlemen  in  the  country,  and  not  one  of  them 
seemed  to  look  or  speak  frankly,  except  Mr.  Mathew,  and  a 
couple  more.  He  is  almost  the  only  man,  too,  tliat  I have  met 
in  Ireland,  who,  in  speaking  of  public  matters,  did  not  talk,  as 
a partisan.  With  the  state  of  the  country,  of  landlord,  tenant, 
and  peasantry,  he  seemed  to  be  most  curiously  and  intimately 


GO 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


acquainted  ; speaking  of  their  wants,  differences,  and  the  means 
of  bettering  them,  with  the  minutest  practical  knowledge.  And 
it  was  impossible  in  hearing  him  to  know,  but  from  previous 
acquaintance  with  his  character,  whether  he  was  Whig  or  Tor^^, 
Catholic  or  Protestant.  Whj^  does  not  Government  make  a 
Privy  Councillor  of  him  ? — that  is,  if  he  would  honor  the  Right 
Honorable  body  by  taking  a seat  amongst  them.  His  knowledge 
of  the  people  is  prodigious,  and  their  confidence  in  him  as  great ; 
and  what  a touching  attachment  that  is  which  these  poor  fellows 
show  to  any  one  who  has  their  cause  at  heart  — even  to  any 
one  who  says  he  has  ! 

Avoiding  all  political  questions,  no  man  seems  more  eager 
than  he  for  the  practical  improvement  of  this  country.  Leases 
and  rents,  farming  improvements,  reading-societies,  music-soci- 
eties — he  was  full  of  these,  and  of  his  schemes  of  temperance 
above  all.  He  never  misses  a chance  of  making  a convert,  and 
has  liis  hand  ready  and  a pledge  in  his  pocket  for  sick  or  poor. 
One  of  his  disciples  in  a liveiy-coat  came  into  the  room  with 
a tray  — Mr.  Mathew  recognized  him,  and  shook  him  by  the 
hand  directl}^ ; so  he  did  with  the  strangers  who  were  presented 
to  him  ; and  not  with  a courtly  popularity-hunting  air,  but,  as 
it  seemed,  from  sheer  hearty  kindness,  and  a desire  to  do  every 
one  good. 

When  breakfast  was  done  — (he  took  but  one  cup  of  tea, 
and  says  that,  from  having  been  a great  consumer  of  tea  and 
refreshing  liquids  before,  a small  cup  of  tea,  and  one  glass  of 
water  at  dinner,  now  serve  him  for  his  day’s  beverage)  — he 
took  the  ladies  of  our  party  to  see  his  burying-ground  — a new 
and  handsome  cemeteiy,  lying  a little  way  out  of  the  town,  and 
where,  thank  God  ! Protestants  ,and  Catholics  may  lie  together, 
without  clergymen  quarrelling  over  their  coffins. 

It  is  a handsome  piece  of  ground,  and  was  formerly  a botanic 
garden  ; but  the  funds  failed  for  that  undertaking,  as  they 
have  for  a thousand  other  public  enterprises  in  this  poor  dis- 
united country  ; and  so  it  has  been  converted  into  a hortiis  siccus 
for  us  mortals.  There  is  already  a pretty  large  collection.  In 
the  midst  is  a place  for  Mathew  himself  — honor  to  him  living 
or  dead  ! Meanwhile,  numerous  stately  monuments  have  been 
built,  flowers  planted  here  and  there  over  dear  remains,  and  the 
garden  in  which  they  lie  is  rich,  green,  and  beautiful.  Here  is 
a fine  statue,  by  Hogan,  of  a weeping  genius  that  broods  over 
the  tomb  of  an  honest  merchant  and  clothier  of  the  cit}'.  He 
took  a liking  to  the  artist,  his  fellow-townsman,  and  ordered 
his  own  monument,  and  had  the  gratification  to  see  it  arrive 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


G1 


from  Rome  a few  weeks  before  his  death.  A prettier  thing 
even  than  the  statue  is  the  tomb  of  a little  bo}',  which  has  been 
shut  in  by  a large  and  curious  grille  of  iron- work.  The  father 
worked  it,  a blacksmith,  whose  darling  the  child  was,  and  he 
spent  three  years  in  hammering  out  this  niausolcum.  It  is  the 
beautiful  story  of  the  pot  of  ointment  told  again  at  the  poor 
blacksmith’s  anvil ; and  who  can  but  like  him  for  placing  this 
line  gilded  cage  over  the  body  of  his  j)oor  little  one?  Presently 
yon  come  to  a Frenchwoman’s  tonil),  with  a French  C[)itaph  by 
a French  husband,  and  a pot  of  artificial  tlowers  in  a niche  — a 
wig,  and  a pot  of*  rouge,  as  it  were.  Just  to  make  the  dead  look 
passably  well.  It  is  his  manner  of  showing  his  symi)athy  for 
an  immortal  soul  that  has  [)assed  awa)'.  The  poor  may  Ixi  buried 
here  for  nothing;  and  heie,  too,  once  more  thank  God!  each 
maj'  rest  without  priests  or  parsons  scowling  hell-fire  at  his 
neighbor  unconscious  under  the  grass. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

CORK THE  URSULINE  CONVENT. 

There  is  a large  Ursuline  convent  at  Blackrock,  near  Cork, 
and  a lady  who  had  been  educated  there  was  kind  enough  to 
invite  me  to  join  a party  to  visit  the  jilace.  Was  not  this  a 
great  privilege  for  a heretic?  I have  jieeped  into  convent 
chapels  abroad,  and  occasionally  caught  glimpses  of  a white 
veil  or  black  gown  ; but  to  see  the  [lious  ladies  in  their  own 
retreat  was  quite  a novelty  — much  more  exciting  than  the  ex- 
hibition of  Long  Horns  and  Short  Horns  by  which  we  had  to 
pass  on  our  road  to  Blackrock. 

The  three  miles’  ride  is  veiy  pretty.  As  far  as  Nature  goes, 
she  has  done  her  best  for  the  neighborhood  ; and  the  noble 
hills  on  the  opposite  coast  of  the  river,  studded  with  innumer- 
able pretty  villas  and  garnished  with  fine  trees  and  meadows, 
the  river  itself  dark  blue  under  a brilliant  cloudless  heaven,  and 
livel3^  with  its  multiplicity  of  gay  craft,  accompany  the  traveller 
along  the  road  ; except  here  and  there  where  the  view  is  shut 
out  b}^  fine  avenues  of  trees,  a beggarly  row  of  cottages,  or  a 
villa  wall.  Rows  of  dirty  cabins,  and  smart  bankers’  coiuitiy- 
houses,  meet  one  at  every  turn  ; nor  do  the  latter  want  for  fine 


62 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


names,  3’ou  ma}’  be  sure.  The  Irish  grandiloquence  displays 
itself  finely  in  the  invention  of  such ; and,  to  the  great  incom 
venience,  I should  think,  of  the  postman,  the  names  of  the 
houses  appear  to  change  with  the  tenants  : for  I saw  man}’  old 
houses  with  new  placards  in  front,  setting  forth  the  last  title  of 
the  house. 

I had  the  box  of  the  carriage  (a  smart  vehicle  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  the  ring),  and  found  the  gentleman  by  my 
side  very  communicative.  He  named  the  owners  of  the  pretty 
mansions  and  lawns  visible  on  the  other  side  of  the  river : they 
appear  almost  all  to  be  merchants,  who  have  made  their  fortunes 
in  the  city.  In  the  like  manner,  though  the  air  of  the  town  is 
extremely  fresh  and  pure  to  a pair  of  London  lungs,  the  Cork 
shopkeeper  is  not  satisfied  with  it,  but  contrives  for  himself  a 
place  (with  an  euphonious  name,  no  doubt)  in  the  suburbs  of 
the  city.  These  stretch  to  a great  extent  along  the  beautiful, 
liberal-looking  banks  of  the  stream. 

I asked  the  man  about  the  Temperance,  and  whether  he  was 
a temperance  man?  He  replied  by  pulling  a medal  out  of  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  saying  that  he  always  carried  it  about  with 
him  for  fear  of  temptation.  He  said  that  he  took  the  pledge 
two  years  ago,  before  which  time,  as  he  confessed,  he  had  been 
a sad  sinner  in  the  way  of  drink.  “ I used  to  take,”  said  he, 
“ from  eighteen  to  twenty  glasses  of  whiskey  a day  ; I was 
always  at  the  drink  ; I’d  be  often  up  all  night  at  the  public : I 
was  turned  away  by  my  present  master  on  account  of  it ; ” — 
and  all  of  a sudden  he  resolved  to  break  it  off.  I asked  him 
whether  he  had  not  at  first  experienced  ill-health  from  the  sud- 
denness of  the  change  in  his  habits  ; but  he  said — and  let  all 
persons  meditating  a conversion  from  liquor  remember  the  fact 
— that  the  abstinence  never  affected  him  in  the  least,  but  that 
he  went  on  growing  better  and  better  in  health  every  day, 
stronger  and  more  able  of  mind  and  body. 

The  man  was  a Catholic,  and  in  speaking  of  the  numerous 
places  of  worship  along  the  road  as  we  passed,  I’m  sorry  to 
confess,  dealt  some  rude  cuts  with  his  whip  regarding  the 
Protestants.  Coachman  as  he  was,  the  fellow’s  remarks  seemed 
to  be  correct : for  it  appears  that  the  religious  world  of  Cork  is 
of  so  exeessively  enlightened  a kind,  that  one  church  will  not 
content  one  pious  person  ; but  that,  on  the  contrary,  they  will 
be  at  Church  of  a morning,  at  Independent  church  of  an  after- 
noon, at  a Darbyite  congregation  of  an  evening,  and  so  on, 
gathering  excitement  or  information  from  all  sources  which  they 
could  come  at.  Is  not  this  the  case  ? are  not  some  of  the  ultra 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


63 


serious  as  eager  after  a new  preacher,  as  the  ultra- worldly  for  a 
new  dancer?  don’t  the}’  talk  and  gossip  about  him  as  much? 
Though  theology  from  the  coach-box  is  rather  questionable, 
(after  all  the  man  was  just  as  much  authorized  to  propound  his 
notions  as  man}’  a fellow  from  an  amateur  pulpit,)  yet  he  cer- 
tainly had  the  right  here  as  far  as  his  charge  against  certain 
Protestants  went. 

The  reasoning  from  it  was  quite  obvious,  and  I’m  sure  was 
in  the  man’s  mind,  though  he  did  not  utter  it,  as  we  drove  by 
this  time  into  the  convent  gate.  “•  Here,”  says  coachman,  “ is 
our  church,  /don’t  drive  my  master  and  mistress  from  church 
to  chapel,  from  chapel  to  conventicle,  hunting  after  new 
preachers  every  Sabbath.  1 bring  them  every  Sunday  and  set 
them  down  at  the  same  place,  where  they  know  that  everything 
the}’  hear  must  be  right.  Their  fathers  have  done  the  same 
thing  before  them  ; and  the  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  will 
come  here  too  ; and  all  the  new-fangled  doctors  and  teachers 
may  go  roaring  through  the  land,  and  still  here  we  come  regu- 
larly, not  caring  a whit  for  the  vagaries  of  others,  knowing  that 
we  ourselves  are  in  the  real  old  right  original  way.” 

I am  sure  this  is  what  the  fellow  meant  by  his  sneer  at  the 
Protestants,  and  their  gadding  from  one  doctrine  to  another ; 
but  there  was  no  call  and  no  time  to  have  a battle  with  him,  as 
by  this  time  we  had  entered  a large  lawn  covered  with  haycocks, 
and  prettily,  as  1 think,  ornamented  with  a border  of  l)lossoming 
potatoes,  and  drove  up  to  the  front  door  of  the  convent.  It  is 
a huge  old  square  house,  with  many  windows,  having  probably 
been  some  Haunting  squire’s  residence  ; but  the  nuns  have  taken 
off  somewhat  from  its  rakish  look,  by  Hinging  out  a couple  of 
wings  with  chapels,  or  buildings  like  chapels,  at  either  end. 

A large,  lofty,  clean,  trim  hall  was  open  to  a Hight  of  steps, 
and  we  found  a young  lady  in  the  hall,  playing,  instead  of  a 
pious  sonata  — which  I vainly  thought  was  the  practice  in  such 
godly  seminaries  of  learning  — that  abominable  I'attling  piece 
of  music  called  la  Violette^  which  it  has  been  my  lot  to  hear 
executed  by  other  young  ladies  ; and  which  (with  its  like)  has 
always  appeared  to  me  to  be  constructed  upon  this  simple 
fashion  — to  take  a tune,  and  then,  as  it  were,  to  fling  it  down 
and  up  stairs.  As  soon  as  the  young  lady  playing  “the 
Violet”  saw  us,  she  quitted  the  hall  and  retired  to  an  inner 
apartment,  where  she  resumed  that  delectable  piece  at  her  leisure. 
Indeed  there  were  pianos  all  over  the  educational  part  of  the 
house. 

We  were  shown  into  a gay  parlor  (where  hangs  a pretty 


64 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


drawing  representing  the  melancliol}'  old  convent  which  the 
Sisters  previously  inhabited  in  Cork) , and  presently  Sister  No. 
Two-Eight  made  her  appearance  — a prett}^  and  graceful  lad}^, 
attired  as  on  the  next  page.* 

’Tis  the  prettiest  nun  of  the  whole  house,”  whispered  the  lady 
who  had  been  educated  at  the  convent ; and  1 must  own  that 
slim  gentle,  and  pretty  as  this  young  lad}'  was,  and  calculated 
wdth  her  kind  smiling  face  and  little  figure  to  frighten  no  one 
in  tb^,  world,  a great  six-foot  Protestant  could  not  help  looking 
at  her  with  a little  tremble.  I had  never  been  in  a nun’s  com- 
pany before;  I’m  afraid  of  such  — I don’t  care  to  own — in 
their  black  m3'sterious  robes  and  awful  veils.  As  priests  in 
gorgeous  vestments,  and  little  rosy  incense-boys  in  red,  bob 
their  heads  and  knees  up  and  down  before  altars,  or  clatter 
silver  pots  full  of  smoking  odors,  I feel  I don’t  know  what  sort 
of  thrill  and  secret  creeping  terror.  Here  I was,  in  a room 
with  a real  live  nun,  pretty  and  pale  — I wonder  has  she  any 
of  her  sisterhood  immured  in  oubliettes  down  below ; is  her 
poor  little  weak,  delicate  bod}'  scarred  all  over  with  scourgings, 
iron  collars,  hair  shirts?  What  has  she  had  for  dinner  to-day? 
— as  we  passed  the  refectory  there  was  a faint  sort  of  vapid 
nun-like  vegetable  smell,  speaking  of  fasts  and  wooden  platters  ; 
and  I could  picture  to  myself  silent  sisters  eating  their  meal  — 
a grim  old  yellow  one  in  the  reading-desk,  croaking  out  an 
extract  from  a sermon  for  their  edification. 

But  is  it  policy,  or  hypocrisy,  or  reality?  These  nuns  affect 
extreme  happiness  and  content  with  their  condition  : a smiling 
beatitude,  which  they  insist  belongs  peculiarly  to  them,  and 
about  which  the  only  doubtful  point  is  the  manner  in  which  it  is 
produced  before  strangers.  Young  ladies  educated  in  convents 
have  often  mentioned  this  fact  — how  the  nuns  persist  in  de- 
claring and  proving  to  them  their  own  extreme  enjoyment  of  life. 

Were  all  the  smiles  of  that  kind-looking  Sister  Two-Eight 
perfectly  sincere?  Whenever  she  spoke  her  face  was  lighted 
up  with  one.  She  seemed  perfectly  radiant  with  happiness, 
tripping  lightly  before  us,  and  distributing  kind  compliments  to 
each,  which  made  me  in  a very  few  minutes  forget  the  introduc- 
tory fright  which  her  poor  little  presence  had  occasioned. 

She  took  us  through  the  hall  (where  was  the  vegetable 
savor  before  mentioned),  and  showed  us  the  contrivance  by 
which  the  name  of  Two-Eight  was  ascertained.  Each  nun  has 
a number,  or  a combination  of  numbers,  prefixed  to  her  name ; 
a bell  is  pulled  a corresponding  number  of  times,  by  which 

* This  refers  to  an  illustrated  edition  of  the  work. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


65 


eaoii  sister  knows  when  she  is  wanted.  Poor  souls  ! are  they 
alwa}"S  on  the  look-out  for  that  bell,  that  the  ringing  of  it  should 
be  supposed  infallibl3’  to  awaken  their  attention. 

heroin  the  hall  the  sister  conducted  us  through  ranges  of 
apartments,  and  I had  elmost  said  avenues  of  pianofortes, 
wiience  here  and  there  a startled  pensioner  would  rise  hinnuleo 
sirnilis^  at  our  approach,  seeking  a pavidayn  ynatrem  in  the 
person  of  a demure  old  stout  mother  hard  b}'.  We  were  taken 
through  a hall  decorated  with  a series  of  pictures  of  Pope  Pius 
VI., — wonderful  adventures,  truh^  in  the  life  of  the  gentle  old 
man.  In  one  you  see  him  gracefullv  receiving  a Prince  and 
Princess  of  Russia  (tremendous  incident!).  The  Prince  has 
a pigtail,  the  Princess  powder  and  a train,  the  Pope  a — but 
never  mind,  we  shall  never  get  through  the  house  at  this  rate. 

Passing  through  Pope  Pius’s  galleiy,  we  came  into  a long, 
clean,  lofty  passage,  with  many  little  doors  on  each  side  ; and 
here  I confess  my  he-art  began  to  tiumip  again.  These  were 
the  doors  of  the  cells  of  the  Sisters.  Bon  Dieu  ! and  is  it  pos- 
sible that  I shall  see  a nun’s  cell?  Do  I not  recollect  the  nun’s 
cell  in  “ The  Monk,”  or  in  “ The  Romance  of  the  Forest?”  or, 
if  not  there,  at  any  rate,  in  a thousand  noble  romances,  read  in 
early  da}’s  of  half-holida}^  perhaps  — romances  at  twopence  a 
volume. 

Come  in,  in  the  name  of  the  saints  I Here  is  the  cell.  I 
took  off  1113^  hat  and  examined  the  little  room  with  much  curious 
wonder  and  reverence.  There  was  an  iron  bed,  with  comfort- 
able curtains  of  green  serge.  There  was  a little  clothes-chest 
of  yellow  wood,  neatl3^  cleaned,  and  a wooden  chair  beside  it, 
and  a desk  on  the  chest,  and  about  six  pictures  on  the  wall  — 
little  religious  pictures : a saint  with  gilt  paper  round  him ; 
the  Virgin  showing  on  her  breast  a bleeding  heart,  with  a sword 
nm  through  it ; and  other  sad  little  subjects,  calculated  to  make 
the  inmate  of  the  cell  think  of  the  sufferings  of  the  saints  and 
mart3TS  of  the  Church.  Then  there  was  a little  crucifix,  and  a 
wax-candle  on  the  ledge  ; and  here  was  the  place  where  the 
poor  black-veiled  things  were  to  pass  their  lives  for  ever  I 

After  having  seen  a couple  of  these  little  cells,  we  left  the 
corridors  in  which  the3'  were,  and  were  conducted,  with  a sort 
of  pride  on  the  nun’s  part,  I thought,  into  the  grand  room 
of  the  convent — a parlor  with  pictures  of  saints,  and  a ga3^ 
paper,  and  a series  of  small  fineries,  such  01113^  as  women  veiy 
idle  know  how  to  make.  There  were  some  portraits  in  the 
room,  one  an  atrocious  daub  of  an  ugly  old  woman,  sur- 
rounded 63^  children  still  more  hideous.  Somebody  had  told 

5 


66 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


the  poor  nun  that  this  was  a fine  thing,  and  she  believed  it 

heaven  bless  her  ! — quite  implicitly  : nor  is  the  picture  of  the 
ugly  old  Canadian  woman  the  first  reputation  that  has  been 
made  this  way. 

Then  from  the  fine  parlor  we  went  to  the  museum,  I don’t 
know  how  we  should  be  curious  of  such  trifles  ; but  the  chroni- 
cling of  small-beer  is  the  main  business  of  life  — people  only 
differing,  as  Tom  Moore  wisely  sa3’s  in  one  of  his  best  poems, 
about  their  own  peculiar  tap.  The  poor  nun’s  little  collection 
of  gimcracks  was  displayed  in  great  state : there  were  spars  in 
one  drawer ; and,  I think,  a Chinese  shoe  and  some  Indian 
wares  in  another ; and  some  medals  of  the  Popes,  and  a couple 
of  score  of  coins ; and  a clean  glass  case,  full  of  antique 
works  of  French  theology  of  the  distant  period  of  Louis  XV., 
to  judge  by  the  bindings  — and  this  formed  the  main  part  of 
the  museum.  ‘"The  chief  objects  were  gathered  together  by 
a single  nun,”  said  the  sister  with  a look  of  wonder,  as  she 
went  prattling  on,  and  leading  us  hither  and  thither,  like  a 
child  showing  her  toys. 

What  strange  mixture  of  pity  and  pleasure  is  it ‘which 
comes  over  you  sometimes  when  a child  takes  you  by  the  hand, 
and  leads  3'ou  up  solemnly  to  some  little  treasure  of  its  own  — ■ 
a feather  or  a string  of  glass  beads?  I declare  I have  often 
looked  at  such  witli  more  delight  than  at  diamonds  ; and  felt 
the  same  sort  of  soft  wonder  examining  the  nun’s  little  treasure- 
chamber.  There  was  something  touching  in  the  ver3'  poverty 
of  it : — had  it  been  finer,  it  would  not  have  been  half  so  good. 

And  now  we  had  seen  all  the  wonders  of  the  house  but  the 
chapel,  and  thither  we  were  conducted  ; all  the  ladies  of  our 
party  kneeling  down  as  they  entered  the  building,  and  saying 
a short  pra3’er. 

This,  as  I am  on  sentimental  confessions,  I must  own  affect- 
ed me  too.  It  was  a very  pretty  and  tender  sight.  I should 
have  liked  to  kneel  down  too,  but  was  ashamed  ; our  northern 
usages  not  encouraging  — among  men  at  least  — that  sort  of 
abandonment  of  dignity.  Do  any  of  us  dare  to  sing  psalms 
at  church?  and  don’t  we  look  with  rather  a sneer  at  a man  who 
does  ? 

The  chapel  had  nothing  remarkable  in  it  except  a ver3'  good 
organ,  as  I was  told  ; for  we  were  allowed  011I3'  to  see  the  ex- 
terior of  that  instrument,  our  pious  guide  with  much  pleasure 
removing  an  oil-cloth  which  covered  the  mahogany.  At  one 
side  of  the  altar  is  a long  high  grille^  through  which  vou  see  a 
hall,  where  the  nuns  have  their  stalls,  and  sit  in  chapel  time ; 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


07 


and  beyond  this  hall  is  another  small  chapel,  with  a couple  of 
altars,  and  one  beautiful  print  in  one  of  them  — a German 
Holy  Family  — a prim,  mystical,  tender  piece,  just  befitting 
the  place. 

In  the  grille  is  a little  wicket  and  a ledge  before  it.  It  is  to 
this  wicket  that  women  are  brought  to  kneel ; and  a bishop  is 
in  the  chapel  on  the  other  side,  and  takes  their  hands  in  his, 
and  receives  their  vows.  I had  never  seen  the  like  before,  aiid 
own  that  I felt  a sort  of  shudder  at  looking  at  the  place. 
There  rest  the  girl’s  knees  as  she  offers  herself  up,  and  for- 
swears the  sacred  affections  which  God  gave  her;  there  she 
kneels  and  denies  I’or  ever  the  beautiful  duties  of  her  being : — 
no  tender  maternal  yearnings,  no  gentle  attachments  are  to  be 
had  for  her  or  from  her,  — there  she  kneels  and  commits  sui- 
cide upon  her  heart.  O honest  Martin  Luther ! thank  God, 
you  came  to  pull  that  infernal,  wicked,  unnatural  altar  down 
— that  cursed  Faganism  ! Let  people,  solitary,  worn  out  by 
sorrow  or  oppressed  with  extreme  remorse,  retire  to  such 
l)laces  ; fly  and  beat  3'our  breasts  in  caATrns  and  wildernesses, 
O women,  if  3'ou  will,  but  be  Magdalens  first.  It  is  shameful 
that  aii3'  young  girl,  with  any  vocation  however  seemingl3'  strong, 
should  be  allowed  to  buiy  herself  in  this  small  tomb  of  a few 
acres.  Look  at  yonder  nun,  — prett3%  smiling,  graceful,  and 
3’oung,  — what  has  God’s  world  done  to  Aer,  that  she  should  run 
from  it,  or  she  done  to  the  world,  that  she  should  avoid  it? 
What  call  has  she  to  give  up  all  her  duties  and  affections?  and 
would  she  not  be  best  serving  God  with  a husband  at  her  side, 
and  a child  on  her  knee? 

The  sights  in  the  house  having  been  seen,  the  nun  led  us 
through  the  grounds  and  gardens.  There  was  the  hay'  in  front, 
a fine  yellow  cornfield  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  a large 
melancholy-looking  kitchen-garden  ; in  all  of  which  places  the 
nuns,  for  certain  hours  in  the  da3',  are  allowed  to  take  recrea- 
tion. “ The  nuns  here  are  allowed  to  amuse  themselves  more 
than  ours  at  New  Hall,”  said  a little  girl  who  is  educated  at 
that  English  convent:  “ do  3'ou  know  that  here  the  nuns  may 
make  ha3^?”  What  a privilege  is  this  ! We  saw  none  of  the 
black  sisterhood  availing  themselves  of  it,  however : the  hay 
was  neatly'  piled  into  cocks  and  readv  for  housing ; so  the  poor- 
souls  must  wait  until  next  y'ear  before  they'  can  enjoy'  this  blessed 
sport  once  more. 

Turning  into  a narrow  gate  with  the  nun  at  our  head,  we 
found  ourselves  in  a little  green,  quiet  inclosure  — it  was  the 
burial-ground  of  the  convent.  The  poor  things  know  the  places 


C8 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


where  the}’  are  to  lie  : she  who  was  with  ns  talked  smilingly  of 
being  stretched  there  one  da}’,  and  pointed  out  the  resting-place 
of  a favorite  old  sister  who  had  died  three  months  back,  and 
been  buried  in  the  ver}'  midst  of  the  little  gronnd.  And  here 
they  come  to  live  and  die.  The  gates  are  open,  bnt  they  never 
go  ont.  All  their  world  lies  in  a dozen  acres  of  gronnd  ; and 
they  sacrifice  their  lives  in  early  youth,  many  of  them  pass- 
ing from  the  grave  up  stairs  in  the  house  to  the  one  scarcely 
narrower  in  the  churchyard  here  ; and  are  seemingly  not  un- 
happy. 

1 came  ont  of  the  place  quite  sick ; and  looking  before  me, 

— there,  thank  God  ! was  the  bine  spire  of  Monkstown  church 
soaring  iq)  into  the  free  sky  — a river  in  front  rolling  away  to 
the  sea  — liberty,  sunshine,  all  sorts  of  glad  life  and  motion 
round  about : and  I conldn’t  bnt  thank  heaven  for  it,  and  the 
Being  whose  service  is  freedom,  and  who  has  given  ns  affections 
that  we  may  nse  them  — not  smother  and  kill  them  ; and  a noble 
world  to  live  in,  that  we  may  admire  it  and  Him  who  made  it 

— not  shrink  from  it,  as  thongh  we  dared  not  live  there,  bnt 
must  turn  onr  backs  upon  it  and  its  bonntifnl  Provider. 

And  in  conclusion,  if  that  most  cold-blooded  and  precise  of 
all  personages,  the  respectable  and  respected  English  reader, 
may  feel  disposed  to  sneer  at  the  above  sentimental  homily,  or 
to  lancy  that  it  has  l)cen  written  for  effect  — let  him  go  and  see 
a convent  for  himself.  I declare  I think  for  my  part  that  we 
have  as  much  right  to  permit  Sntteeism  in  India  as  to  allow 
women  in  the  United  Kingdom  to  take  these  wicked  vows,  or 
Catholic  bishops  to  receive  them  ; and  that  Government  has 
as  good  a right  to  inter})ose  in  such  cases,  as  the  police  have  to 
prevent  a man  from  hanging  himself,  or  the  doctor  to  refnse  a 
glass  of  prnssic-acid  to  any  one  who  may  have  a wish  to  go 
ont  of  the  world. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CORK. 

Amidst  the  bustle  and  gayeties  of  the  Agricultural  meeting, 
the  working-day  aspect  of  the  city  was  not  to  be  judged  of:  but 
I passed  a fortnight  in  the  place  afterwards,. during  which  time 
it  settled  down  to  Hs  calm  and  usual  condition.  The  flashy 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


69 


French  and  plated  goods’  shops,  wliich  made  a show  for  the 
occasion  of  the  meeting,  disappeared  ; you  were  no  longer 
crowded  and  jostled  by  smart  male  and  female  dandies  in  walk- 
ing down  Patrick  Street  or  the  Mall  ; the  poor  little  theatre 
•had  searetd}'  a soul  on  its  bare  benches  : 1 went  once,  l)ut  the 
dreadful  brass-band  of  a dragoon  regiment  blew  me  out  of 
doors.  This  music  could  be  heard  much  more  pleasantl}’  at 
some  distance  olf  in  the  street. 

One  secs  in  this  country  many  a grand  and  tall  iron  gate 
leading  into  a veiy  shabby  tield  covered  with  thistles  ; and  the 
simile  to  tlie  gate  will  in  some  degree  ap^)!}'  to  this  famous  cit}' 
of  Cork,  — which  is  certainly  not  a eit}’  ol‘  palaces,  but  of  which 
the  outlets  are  magnificent.  That  towards  Killarney  leads  b)^ 
the  Lee,  the  old  avenue  of  iMardyke,  and  the  rich  green  pastures 
strctcliing  down  to  tlie  river;  and  as  you  [lass  by  the  portico  of 
the  count}’  gaol,  as  line  and  as  glancing  as  a palace,  3011  see 
the  wooded  heights  on  the  other  side  of  the  fair  stream,  crowded 
with  a thousand  pretty  villas  and  tei’races,  presenting  eveiy 
image  of  comfort  and  prosperitv-  The  entrance  from  Cove 
has  been  mentioned  before  ; nor  is  it  eas}’  to  find  anywhere 
a nobler,  grander,  and  more  cheerful  scene. 

Along  the  qua  vs  iqi  to  St.  Patrick’s  Bridge  there  is  a certain 
bustle.  Some  fort}’  ships  may  be  lying  at  anchor  along  the 
walls  of  the  (piay,  and  its  pavements  are  covered  with  goods  of 
various  merchandise  : here  a cargo  of  hides  ; yonder  a company 
of  soldiers,  their  kits,  and  their  Dollies,  who  are  taking  leave 
of  the  red-coats  at  the  steamer’s  side.  Then  you  shall  see  a 
line,  squeaking,  shrieking  drove  of  pigs  embarking  by  the  same 
conveyance,  and  insinuated  into  the  steamer  by  all  sorts  of 
coaxing,  threatening,  and  wheedling.  Seamen  are  singing  and 
yeehoing  on  lioard  ; grimy  colliers  smoking  at  the  liquor-shops 
along  the  quay  ; and  as  for  the  bridge — there  is  a crowd  of 
idlers  on  that^  you  may  be  sure,  sprawling  over  the  balustrade 
lor  ever  and  ever,  with  long  ragged  coats,  steeple-hats,  and 
stumpy  doodeens. 

Then  along  the  Coal  Quay  you  may  see  a clump  of  jingle- 
drivers,  who  have  all  a word  for  your  honor ; and  in  Patrick 
Street,  at  three  o’clock,  when  “The  Rakes  of  Mallow”  gets 
under  weigh  (a  cracked  old  coach  with  the  paint  rul)bed  ofl, 
some  smart  horses,  and  an  exceedingly  dingy  harness)  — at 
three  o’clock,  you  will  l)e  sure  to  see  at  least  forty  persons  wait- 
ing to  witness  the  departure  of  the  said  coach  : so  that  the 
neighborhood  of  the  inn  has  an  air  of  some  bustle. 

At  the  other  extremity  of  the  town,  if  it  be  assize  time,  you 


70 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


will  see  some  five  hundred  persons  squatting  by  the  court- 
house,  or  buzzing  and  talking  within.  The  rest  of  the  respect- 
able quarter  of  the  city  is  pi-etly  free  from  anything  like  bustle  : 
tliere  is  no  more  life  in  Patrick  Street  than  in  Russell  Square  of 
a sunshiin'  day  ; and  as  for  the  Mall,  it  is  as  lonely  as  the  chief, 
street  of  a German  Residenz. 

I have  mentioned  the  respectable  quarter  of  the  cit}’  — for 
there  are  quarters  in  it  swarming  with  life,  but  of  such  a fright- 
ful kind  as  no  pen  need  care  to  describe  : alle3\s  where  the  odors 
and  rags  and  darkness  are  so  liideous,  that  one  runs  frightened 
away  from  them.  In  some  of  them,  they  sa}',  not  the  police- 
man, only  the  })riest,  can  penetrate.  I asked  a Roman  Catholic 
clergyman  of  the  city  to  take  me  into  some  of  these  haunts,  but 
he  refused  very  justl}' ; and  indeed  a man  may  be  quite  satisfied 
with  what  he  can  see  in  the  mere  outskirts  of  the  districts,  with- 
out caring  to  penetrate  further.  Not  far  from  the  quays  is  an 
open  space  where  the  poor  hold  a market  or  bazaar.  Here  is 
liveliness  and  business  enough : ragged  women  chattering  and 
crying  their  beggarly  wares  ; ragged  boys  gloating  over  dirty 
api)le-  and  i)ie-stalls  ; fish  frying,  and  raw  and  stinking  ; clothes- 
booths,  where  you  might  buy  a wardrobe  for  scarecrows  ; old 
nails,  hoops,  bottles,  and  marine-wares  ; old  battered  furniture, 
that  has  been  sold  against  starvation.  In  the  streets  round 
about  this  place,  on  a sunshiny  day,  all  the  black  gaping  win- 
dows and  mouldy  steps  are  covered  with  squatting  lazy  figures 
- — women,  with  bare  breasts,  nursing  babies,  and  leering  a joke 
as  you  [)ass  by  — ragged  children  i)addling  eveiywhere.  It  is 
but  two  minutes’  walk  out  of  Patrick  Street,  where  you  come 
upon  a tine  (lashy  shop  of  i)lated-goods,  or  a grand  French 
emporimn  of  dolls,  walking-sticks,  carpet-bags,  and  perfumery. 
The  markets  hard  by  have  a rough,  old-fashioned,  cheerful  look  ; 
it’s  a comfort  after  the  iniseiy  to  hear  a red  butcher’s  wife  cry- 
ing after  you  to  buy  an  honest  piece  of  meat. 

The  i)Oor-house,  newly  established,  cannot  hold  a fifth  part 
of  the  poverty  of  this  great  town  : the  richer  inhabitants  are 
untiring  in  their  charities,  and  the  Catholic  clergyman  before 
mentioned  took  me  to  see  a delivery  of  rice,  at  which  he  pre- 
sides eveiy  da}'  until  the  potatoes  shall  come  in.  This  market, 
over  which  he  presides  so  kindly,  is  held  in  an  old  bankrupt 
warehouse,  and  the  rice  is  sold  considerabl}'  under  the  prime 
cost  to  hundreds  of  struggling  applicants  who  come  when  lucky 
enough  to  have  wherewithal  to  pay. 

That  ihe  city  contains  much  wealth  is  evidenced  by  the 
number  of  handsome  villas  round  about  it,  where  the  rich  mer- 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  ROOK. 


71 


chants  dwell ; but  the  warehouses  of  the  wealthy  provision- 
merchants  make  no  show  to  the  stranger  walking  the  streets ; 
and  of  tiie  retail-shops,  if  some  are  si)acious  and  handsome, 
most  look  as  if  too  big  for  the  business  carried  on  within.  The 
want  of  ready  mone}'  was  (juite  curious.  In  three  of  the  prin- 
cipal shops  1 purchased  articles,  and  tendered  a i)Ound  in  ex- 
change — not  one  of  them  had  silver  enough  ; and  as  for  a 
live-pound  note,  which  1 pi'esented  at  one  of  the  to[)ping  book- 
seller’s, his  boy  went  round  to  various  [)laces  in  vain,  and  finally 
set  forth  to  the  Rank,  where  change  was  got.  In  another  small 
shop  1 offered  half  a crown  to  [)ay  I'or  a sixpenny  article  — it 
was  all  the  same.  “Tim,”  says  the  good  woman,  “run  out 
in  a hurry  and  fetch  the  gentleman  change.”  dbvo  of  the  shop- 
men, seeing  an  Englishman,  were  very  particular  to  tell  me  in 
what  3'ears  they  themselves  had  been  in  London.  It  seemed  a 
merit  in  these  gentlemen’s  eyes  to  have  once  dwelt  in  thatcit}" ; 
and  I see  in  the  papers  continually  ladies  advertising  as  gov- 
ernesses, and  specifying  particular!}^  that  they  are  “ English 
ladies.” 

I received  six  bl.  post-office  orders  ; I called  four  times  on 
as  many  different  days  at  the  Post  Office  before  the  capital 
could  be  forthcoming,  getting  on  the  third  a}j[)lication  20/. 
(after  making  a great  clamor,  and  vowing  that  such  things  were 
unheard-of  in  England),  and  on  the  fourth  call  the  remaining 
10/.  I saw  poor  people,  who  may  have  come  from  the  country 
with  their  orders,  refused  i)ayment  of  an  order  of  some  405.  ; 
and  a gentleman  who  tendered  a pound-note  in  payment  of  a 
foreign  letter,  was  told  to  “ leave  his  letter  and  pay  some  other 
time.”  Such  things  could  not  take  place  in  the  hundred-and- 
second  city  in  England  ; and  as  1 do  not  pretend  to  doctrinize 
at  all,  I leave  the  reader  to  draw  his  own  deductions  with  regard 
to  the  commercial  condition  and  prosperity  of  the  second  city 
in  Ireland. 

Half  a dozen  of  the  public  buildings  I saw  were  spacious 
and  shabby  beyond  all  cockney  belief.  Adjoining  the  “ Im- 
perial Hotel  ” is  a great,  large,  handsome,  desolate  reading- 
room,  which  was  founded  by  a body  of  Cork  merchants  and 
tradesmen,  and  is  the  very  picture  of  decay.  Not  Palmyra  — 
not  the  Russell  Institution  in  Great  Coram  Street  — presents  a 
more  melancholy  appearance  of  faded  greatness.  Opposite  this 
is  another  institution  called  the  Cork  Library,  where  there  are 
plenty  of  books  and  plenty  of  kindness  to  the  stranger  ; but  the 
shabbiness  and  faded  splendor  of  the  place  are  quite  painful. 
There  are  three  handsome  Catholic  churches  commenced  of  late 


72 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


3’ears  ; not  one  of  them  is  complete  : two  wmnt  their  porticos 
the  other  is  not  more  than  thirt}^  feet  from  the  ground,  and 
according  to  the  architectural  plan  w'as  to  rise  as  High  as  a 
cathedral.  There  is  an  Institution,  with  a fair  library  of 
scientific  works,  a museum,  and  a drawing-school  with  a 
supply  of  casts.  The  place  is  in  3’et  more  dismal  condition 
than  the  Library : the  plasters  are  spoiled  incurabl}’  for  want 
of  a sixpenny  feather- brush ; the  dust  lies  on  the  walls,  and 
nobody  seems  to  heed  it.  Two  shillings-  a 3’ear  w^ould  have 
repaired  much  of  the  evil  which  has  happened  to  this  institu- 
tion ; and  it  is  folly  to  talk  of  inward  dissensions  and  political 
differences  as  causing  the  ruin  of  such  institutions : kings  or 
law  don’t  cause  or  cure  dust  and  cobwebs,  but  indolence  leaves 
them  to  accumulate,  and  imprudence  will  not  calculate  its 
income,  and  vanit3^  exaggerates  its  own  powers,  and  the  fault 
is  laid  upon  that  tyrant  of  a sister  kingdom.  The  whole 
country  is  filled  with  such  failures ; swaggering  beginnings 
that  could  not  be  carried  through ; grand  enterprises  begun 
dashingly,  and  ending  in  shabb3"  compromises  or  downright 
ruin. 

I have  said  something  in  praise  of  the  manners  of  the  Cork 
ladies  : in  regard  of  the  gentlemen,  a stranger  too  must  remark 
the  extraordinary  degree  of  literary  taste  and  talent  amongst 
them,  and  the  wit  and  vivacity  of  their  conversation.  The  love 
for  literature  seems  to  an  Englishman  donbH  curious.  What, 
generally  speaking,  do  a compan3’  of  grave  gentlemen  and  ladies 
in  Baker  Street  know  about  it?  Who  ever  reads  books  in  the 
City,  or  how  often  does  one  hear  them  talked  about  at  a Club  ? 
T’he  Cork  citizens  are  the  most  book-loving  men  I ever  met. 
The  town  has  sent  to  England  a number  of  literary  men,  of 
reputation  too,  and  is  not  a little  proud  of  their  fame.  Eveiy- 
bod3^  seemed  to  know  what  Magiim  was  doing,  and  that  Father 
Prout  had  a third  volume  readv,  and  what  was  Mr.  Croker’s 
last  article  in  the  Quarterly.  The  young  clerks  and  shopmen 
seemed  as  much  au  fait  as  their  employers,  and  main-  is  the 
conversation  I heard  about  the  merits  of  this  wnlter  or  that  — 
Dickens,  Ainsworth,  Lover,  Lever. 

I think,  in  w'alking  the  streets,  and  looking  at  the  ragged 
urchins  crowding  there,  evei’3'  Englishman  must  remark  that 
the  superioritv  of  intelligence  is  here,  and  not  with  us.  I never 
saw  such  a collection  of  bright-eyed,  wild,  clever,  eager  faces. 
Mr.  Maclise  has  carried  away  a number  of  them  in  his  memoiy  ; 
and  the  lovers  of  his  admirable  pictures  will  find  more  than  one 
Munster  countenance  under  a helmet  in  compaiy'  of  Macbeth, 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


73 


or  in  a slashed  doublet  alongside  of  Prince  Hamlet,  or  in  the 
very  midst  of  Spain  in  company  Avith  Sehor  Gil  Bias.  Gil 
Bias  himself  came  IVom  Cork,  and  not  from  Oviedo. 

I listened  to  two  Ixn’s  almost  in  I'ags  : they  were  lolling  over 
the  quay  balustrade,  and  talking  about  one  of  the  Ptolemy s ! and 
talking  very  well  too.  One  of  them  had  been  reading  in  “ Rol- 
lin,”  and  was  detailing  his  information  with  a great  deal  of 
eloquence  and  fire.  Another  da>',  walking  in  the  Mardj’ke,  I 
followed  three  boys,  not  half  so  well  dressed  as  London  errand- 
boys  : one  was  telling  the  other  about  Captain  Ross’s  voyages, 
and  spoke  with  as  much  brightness  and  intelligence  as  the  best- 
read  gentleman’s  son  in  England  could  do.  He  was  as  much 
of  a gentleman  too,  the  ragged  A oung  student ; his  manner  as 
good,  though  perhaps  more  eager  and  emphatic;  his  language 
was  extremely  rich,  too,  and  eloquent.  Does  the  reader  remem- 
ber his  school-days,  Avhcn  half  a dozen  lads  in  the  bedrooms 
took  it  by  turns  to  tell  stories  ? Iioav  [>oor  the  language  generally 
was,  and  Iioav  exceedingi  v poor  the  imagination  ! Both  of  those 
ragged  Irish  lads  had  the  making  of  gentlemen,  scholars,  orators, 
in  them.  Apro[)os  of  love  of  reading,  let  me  mention  here  a 
Dublin  stoiy.  Di\  LeA'ei',  the  celel)rated  author  of  “ Harry  Lor- 
requer,”  went  into  Dycei-’s  stables  to  Imy  a horse.  The  groom 
who  brought  the  animal  out,  directi}'  he  heard  Avho  the  gentle- 
man Avas,  came  out  and  touched  his  cap,  and  pointed  to  a little 
book  in  his  pocket  in  a [)ink  cover.  “ I ccuit  do  without  it^  sirf 
says  the  man.  It  was  Harry  Lorrequer.”  I Avonder  does  any 
one  of  Mr.  Rymell’s  grooms  take  in  ''  PickAvick,”  or  would  they 
have  any  curiosity  to  see  Mr.  Dickens,  should  he  pass  that 
wa}’  ? 

The  Corkagians  are  eager  for  a Munster  UniA'ersity  ; asking 
for,  and  having  a very  good  right  to,  the  same  privilege  which 
has  been  gi-anted  to  the  chief  city  of  the  North  of  Ireland.  It 
would  not  fail  of  being  a great  benefit  to  the  city  and  to  the 
country  too,  Avhich  would  have  no  need  to  go  so  far  as  Dublin 
for  a school  of  letters  and  medicine  ; nor.  Whig  and  Catholic 
for  the  most  part,  to  attend  a Toiy  and  Protestant  UniA^ersity. 
The  establishing  of  an  open  college  in  Munster  Avould  bring 
much  popularity  to  any  Ministry  that  should  accord  such  a 
boon.  People  would  ciy  out,  “ Popery  and  Infidelity,”  doubt- 
less, as  they  did  when  the  London  University  was  established  ; 
as  the  same  party  in  Spain  would  ciy  out,  ‘^Atheism  and 
Heresy.”  But  the  time,  thank  God  ! is  gone  by  in  England 
AA'hen  it  was  necessary  to  legislate  for  them  ; and  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  in  giving  his  adherence  to  the  National  Education  scheme, 


74 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


has  sanctioned  the  principle  of  which  this  so  much  longed-for 
college  would  onl}'  be  a consequence. 

The  medical  charities  and  hospitals  are  said  to  be  very  well 
arranged,  and  the  medical  men  of  far  more  than  ordinary  skill. 
Other  public  institutions  are  no  less  excellent.  I was  taken 
over  the  Lunatic  As3'lum,  where  everything  was  conducted  with 
admirable  comfort,  cleanliness,  and  kindness  ; and  as  for  the 
count}^  gaol,  it  is  so  neat,  spacious,  and  comfortable,  that  we 
can  onl}'  pra}"  to  see  eveiy  cottager  in  the  countiy  as  cleanly, 
well  lodged,  and  well  fed  as  the  convicts  are.  They  get  a pound 
of  bread  and  a pint  of  milk  twice  a day  : there  must  be  millions 
of  people  in  this  wretched  countiy,  to  whom  such  food  would 
be  a luxiiiy  that  their  utmost  labors  can  never  ly^  possibilit}" 
procure  for  them  ; and  in  going  over  this  admirable  institution, 
where  everybody  is  cleanly,  healthy,  and  well-clad,  I could  not 
but  think  of  the  rags  and  filth  of  the  horrid  starvation  market 
before  mentioned ; so  that  the  prison  seemed  almost  a sort  of 
premium  for  vice.  But  the  people  like  their  freedom,  such  as 
it  is,  and  prefer  to  starve  and  be  ragged  as  they  list.  They 
will  not  go  to  the  poor-houses,  except  at  the  greatest  extremit^q 
and  leave  them  on  the  slightest  chance  of  existence  elsewhere. 

Walking  away  from  this  palace  of  a prison,  3'ou  pass  amidst 
all  sorts  of  delightful  verdure,  cheerful  gardens,  and  broad 
green  luscious  pastures,  down  to  the  beautiful  River  Lee.  On 
one  side,  the  river  shines  away  towards  the  cit3'  with  its  towers 
and  purple  steeples  ; on  the  other  it  is  broken  b3"  little  water- 
falls and  bound  in  l>3'  blue  hills,  an  old  castle  towering  in  the 
distance,  and  innumerable  parks  and  villas  lying  along  the 
pleasant  wooded  banks.  How  beautiful  the  scene  is,  how  rich 
and  how  liap[)3' ! Yonder,  in  the  old  Mardyke  Avenue,  you 
hear  the  voices  of  a score  of  children,  and  along  the  bright 
green  meadows,  where  the  cows  arc  feeding,  the  gentle  shadows 
of  the  clouds  go  playing  over  tlie  grass.  Who  can  look  at  such 
a charming  scene  but  with  a thankful  swelling  heart? 

In  the  midst  of  your  pleasure,  three  beggars  have  hobbled 
up,  and  are  howling  supplications  to  the  Lord.  One  is  old  and 
blind,  and  so  diseased  and  hideous,  that  straightwa3'  all  the 
pleasure  of  the  sight  round  about  vanishes  from  3^011  — that 
livid  ghastlv  face  inter[)osing  between  3’ou  and  it.  And  so  it 
is  tliroughout  the  south  and  west  of  Ireland ; the  traveller 
is  haunted  by  the  face  of  the  popular  starvation.  It  is  not  the 
exception,  it  is  tlic  condition  of  the  people.  In  this  fairest 
and  richest  of  countries,  men  are  suffering  and  starving  1)3' 
millions.  There  are  thousands  of  them  at  this  minute  stretched 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  ROOK. 


75 

m the  sunshine  at  their  cabin  doors  with  no  work,  scarcely 
any  food,  no  hope  seeiniiigl}'.  Strong  countrymen  are  lying 
in  bed  the  }inn<fcr''‘  — because  a man  lying  on  his  back 

does  not  need  so  inncli  food  as  a person  afoot.  Man}^  of 
tliem  have  torn  ni)  the  unri[)e  [)otatoes  from  their  little  gar- 
dens, to  exist  now,  and  must  look  to  winter,  when  they 
sliall  have  to  suffer  starvation  and  cold  too.  Tlie  e[)icurean, 
and  traveller  for  [)leasure,  liad  better  travel  aii3’where  than  here: 
where  there  are  nhsei-ies  that  one  does  not  dare  to  think  of; 
where  one  is  alwavs  feeling  how  helpless  [)ity  is,  and  how  liope- 
less  relief,  and  is  perpetually  made  ashamed  of  being  happ^'. 

I have  just  been  strolling  up  a pretty  little  height  called 
Grattan’s  Ilill,  that  overlooks  the  town  and  the  river,  and  where 
the  artist  that  comes  Coi'k-wards  may  lind  man}'  subjects  for 
his  pencil.  There  is  a kind  of  [)leasure-ground  at  the  top  of 
tliis  eminence — ^a  broad  walk  that  draggles  up  to  a ruined  wall, 
with  a ruined  niche  in  it,  and  a battered  stone  bench.  On  the 
side  that  shelves  down  to  the  water  are  some  beeches,  and 
oi>posite  them  a row  of  houses  from  which  you  see  one  of  the 
])rettiest  prospects  possible  — the  shining  river  with  the  craft 
along  the  quays,  and  the  busy  city  in  the  distance,  the  active 
little  steamers  [)u(Iing  away  towards  Cove,  the  farther  bank 
crowned  with  rich  woods,  and  [)leasant-looking  counlry-houscs  : 
l)erhai)s  they  are  tumbling,  I’ickety  and  ruinous,  as  those  houses 
close  by  us,  but  you  can’t  see  the  ruin  from  here. 

What  a strange  air  of  forlorn  gayety  there  is  about  the 
})lace  ! — ^the  sky  itself  seems  as  if  it  did  not  know  whether  to 
laugh  or  cry,  so  full  is  it  of  clouds  and  sunshine.  Little  fat, 
ragged,  smiling  children  are  clambering  about  the  rocks,  and 
sitting  on  mossy  door-steps,  tending  other  children  yet  smaller, 
fatter,  and  more  dirty.  “Stop  till  I get  you  a posy”  (pro- 
nounced pawawawsee)  ^ cries  one  urchin  to  another.  “ Tell  me 
who  is  it  ye  love,  Jooly?”  exclaims  another,  cuddling  a red- 
faced infant  with  a very  dirty  nose.  More  of  the  same  race 
are  perched  about  the  summer-house,  and  two  wenches  with 
large  purple  feet  are  flapping  some  carpets  in  the  air.  It  is  a 
w'onder  the  carpets  will  bear  this  kind  of  treatment  at  all,  and 
do  not  be  off*  at  once  to  mingle  with  the  elements  : I never  saw 
things  that  hung  to  life  by  such  a frail  thread. 

This  dismal  pleasant  place  is  a suburb  of  the  second  city  in  Ire- 
land, and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  spots  about  the  town.  What 
a prim,  bustling,  active,  green-railinged,  tea-gardened,  gravel- 
walked  place  would  it  have  been  in  the  five-hundredth  town  in 


76 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


England  ! — but  3'ou  see  the  people  can  be  quite  as  happy  in  the 
rags  and  without  the  paint,  and  I hear  a great  deal  more  hearti- 
ness and  affection  from  these  children  than  from  their  fat  little 
brethren  across  the  Channel. 

If  a man  wanted  to  study  ruins,  here  is  a house  close  at 
hand,  not  forty  years  old  no  doubt,  but  3'et  as  completely  gone 
to  wrOck  as  Netley  Abbe}'.  It  is  quite  curious  to  study  that 
house  ; and  a pretty  ruinous  fabric  of  improvidence,  extrava- 
gance, happiness,  and  disaster  may  the  imagination  build  out 
of  it  I In  the  first  place,  the  owners  did  not  wait  to  finish  it 
before  they  went  to  inliabit  it ! This  is  written  in  just  such 
another  place  ; — a handsome  drawing-room  with  a good  carpet, 
a lofty  marble  mantel-piece,  and  no  paper  to  the  walls.  The 
door  is  prettily  painted  white  and  blue,  and  though  not  six 
weeks  old,  a great  piece  of  the  wood- work  is  off  already  (Peggy 
uses  it  to  prevent  the  door  from  banging  to)  ; and  there  are 
some  fine  chinks  in  every  one  of  the  panels,  by  which  my 
neighbor  may  see  all  my  doings. 

A couple  of  score  of  years,  and  this  house  will  be  just  like 
yonder  place  on  Grattan’s  Hill. 

Like  a young  prodigal,  the  house  begins  to  use  its  constitu- 
tion too  early  ; and  when  it  should  yet  (in  the  shape  of  carpen- 
ters and  i)ainters)  have  all  its  masters  and  guardians  to  watch 
and  educate  it,  my  house  on  Grattan’s  Hill  must  be  a man  at 
once,  and  enjoy  all  the  privileges  of  strong  health  ! I would 
lay  a guinea  they  were  making  punch  in  that  house  before  they 
could  keel)  the  rain  out  of  it ! that  they  had  a dinner-party  and 
ball  before  the  floors  were  fii*m  or  the  wainscots  painted,  and 
a fine  tester-bed  in  the  best  room,  where  my  lady  might  catch 
cold  in  state,  in  the  midst  of  yawning  cliimneys,  creaking 
window-sashes,  and  smoking  plaster. 

Now  look  at  the  door  of  the  coach-house,  with  its  first  coat 
of  paint  seen  yet,  and  a variety  of  patches  to  keep  the  feeble 
barrier  together.  The  loft  was  arched  once,  but  a great  corner 
has  tumbled  at  one  end,  leaving  a gash  that  unites  the  windows 
with  the  coach-house  door.  Several  of  the  arch-stones  are 
removed,  and  tlie  whole  edifice  is  about  as  rambling  and  dis- 
orderly as  — as  the  arrangement  of  this  book,  say.  Very  tall 
tufts  of  mouldy  moss  are  on  the  drawing-room  windows,  with 
long  white  heads  of  grass.  As  I am  sketching  this  — honk!  — 
a great  lean  sow  comes  ti’ampling  through  the  slush  within  the 
court-yard,  breaks  down  the  tliinsy  apparatus  of  rattling  boards 
and  stones  which  had  passed  for  the  gate,  and  walks  with  her 
seven  squeaking  little  ones  to  disport  on  the  grass  on  the  hill. 


THE  I KISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


77 


The  drawing-room  of  the  tenement  mentioned  just  now, 
with  its  pictures,  and  pullc3'less  windows  and  lockless  doors, 
was  tenanted  l>3’  a friend  who  lodged  tliere  with  a sick  wife 
and  a cou[)le  of  little  children  ; one  of  wliom  was  an  infant  in 
arms.  It  is  not,  however,  the  lodger  — who  is  an  Englishman 
— hut  the  kind  landlad}'  and  her  family  who  may  well  he  de- 
scrihed  here  — for  their  like  are  hardly  to  he  found  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Channel.  Mrs.  Fagan  is  a .young  widow  who  has 
sieen  hettcr  days,  and  that  portrait  over  the  grand  mantel-piece 
is  the  picture  of  her  hnshand  that  is  goue,  a handsome  young 
man,  and  well  to  do  at  one  time  as  a merchant.  But  the 
widow  (she  is  as  [)retH',  as  lady-like,  as  kind,  and  as  neat  as 
ever  widow  could  he,)  has  little  lel't  to  live  u[)on  hut  the  rent 
of  her  lodgings  and  her  furniture  ; of  which  we  have  seen  the 
best  in  the  drawing-room. 

She  has  three  tine  children  of  her  own  : there  is  IMinny,  and 
Katey,  and  Batsc.v,  and  they  occii[)y  indifferently  the  (lining- 
room  on  the  gronnd-lloor  or  the  kitchen  oi)posite  ; where  in 
the  midst  of  a great  smoke  sits  an  old  nurse,  hy  a coi)per  of 
potatoes  which  is  always  hnhhling  and  full.  Batsey  swallows 
(|uantities  of  them,  that’s  clear  : his  checks  are  as  red  and  shin- 
ing as  ap[)les,  and  when  he  roars,  you  are  sure  that  his  lungs 
are  in  the  tinest  condition.  Next  door  to  the  kitchen  is  the 
pantiy,  and  there  is  a hucketful  of  the  hefore-mentioned  fruit 
and  a grand  service  of  china  for  dinner  and  dessert.  The 
kind  young  widow  shows  them  with  no  little  [)ride,  and  says 
with  reason  that  there  are  few  lodging-houses  in  Cork  that  can 
match  such  china  as  that.  They  are  relics  of  the  happ}"  old 
times  when  Fagan  kept  his  gig  and  horse,  doubtless,  and  had 
his  friends  to  dine  — the  happ.v  prosperous  days  which  she 
has  exchanged  for  povertv  and  the  sad  black  gown. 

Patse.y,  IMinny,  and  Katey  have  made  friends  with  the  little 
English  people  up  stairs  ; the  elder  of  whom,  in  the  course  of 
a month,  has  as  tine  a Munster  brogue  as  ever  trolled  over  the 
lips  of  any  horn  Corkagian.  The  old  nurse  carries  out  the 
Avhole  united  party  to  walk,  with  the  exception  of  the  English 
hah}’,  that  jumps  about  in  the  arms  of  a countiywoman  of  her 
own.  That  is,  unless  one  of  the  four  Miss  Fagans  takes  her; 
for  four  of  them  there  are,  four  other  Miss  Fagans,  from  eigh- 
teen downwards  to  fourteen  : — handsome,  fresh,  livehy  dancing, 
bouncing  girls.  You  ma}'  always  see  two  or  three  of  them 
smiling  at  the  parlor-window,  and  the}’  laugh  and  turn  away 
their  heads  when  an}’  3^oung  fellow  looks  and  admires  them. 
Now  it  stands  to  reason  that  a young  widow  of  hve-and^ 


78 


TilE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


twenty  can’t  be  the  mother  of  four  young  ladies  of  eighteen 
downwards  ; and,  if  an}^body  wants  to  know  how  they  come 
to  be  living  with  the  poor  widow  their  cousin,  the  answer  is, 
they  are  on  a visit.  Peggy  the  maid  says  their  papa  is  a 
gentleman  of  property,  and  can  “spend  his  eight  hundred  a 
year.” 

Why  don’t  they  remain  with  the  old  gentleman  then,  instead 
of  quartering  on  the  poor  3’oung  widow,  who  has  her  own  little 
mouths  to  feed?  The  reason  is,  the  old  gentleman  has  gone 
and  married  his  cook ; and  the  daughters  have  quitted  him  in  a 
body,  refusing  to  sit  down  to  dinner  with  a person  who  ought 
by  rights  to  be  in  the  kitchen.  The  whole  family"  (the  Fagans 
are  of  good  famil}^)  take  the  quarrel  up,  and  here  are  the  young 
people  under  shelter  of  the  widow. 

Four  merrier  tender-hearted  girls  are  not  to  be  found  in  all 
Ireland ; and  the  onl}'  subject  of  contention  amongst  them  is, 
which  shall  liave  the  English  baby : the}'  are  nursing  it,  and 
singing  to  it,  and  dandling  it  by  turns  all  da}'  long.  When 
they  are  not  singing  to  the  baby,  they  are  singing  to  an  old 
piano  : such  an  old  wiry,  jingling,  wheezy  piano  ! It  has  plenty 
of  work,  playing  jigs  and  song  accompaniments  between  meals, 
and  acting  as  a sideboard  at  dinner.  I am  not  sure  that  it 
is  at  rest  at  night  either  ; but  have  a shrewd  suspicion  that  it  is 
turned  into  a four-post  bed.  And  for  the  following  reason  : — 

ICvery  afternoon,  at  four  o’clock,  you  see  a tall  old  gentle- 
man walking  leisurely  to  the  house,  lie  is  dressed  in  a long 
great-coat  with  huge  pockets,  and  in  the  huge  pockets  are  sure 
to  he  some  big  aj)ples  for  all  the  children  — the  English  child 
amongst  the  rest,  and  she  generally  has  the  biggest  one.  At 
seven  o’clock,  you  are  sure  to  hear  a deep  voice  shouting 
“ PaCxGy  ! ” in  an  awful  tone  — it  is  the  old  gentleman  calling 
for  his  “ materials  ; ” which  Peggy  brings  without  any  farther 
ado  ; and  a glass  of  [)unch  is  imule,  no  doubt,  for  everybody. 
T'hen  the  party  se[)arates  : the  children  and  the  old  nurse  have 
long  since  trampled  up  stairs  ; Peggy  has  the  kitchen  for  her 
.sleeping  apartment,  and  the  four  young  ladies  make  it  out 
somehow  in  the  back  drawing-room.  As  for  the  old  gentle- 
man, he  reposes  in  the  parlor  ; and  it  must  be  somewhere  about 
the  piano,  for  there  is  no  furniture  in  the  room  except  that, 
a table,  a few  old  chairs,  a work-box,  and  a couple  of  albums. 

The  English  girl’s  father  met  her  in  the  street  one  day, 
talking  conlidentially  with  a tall  old  gentleman  in  a great-coat- 
“ Who’s  your  friend?”  says  the  Englishman  afterwards  to  the 
little  girl.  Don’t  you  know  him,  papa?”  said  tlje  child  in 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


79 


the  purest  brogue.  “Don’t  3’ou  know  him?  — That’s  Uncle 
Jamls!”  And  so  it  was : in  this  kind,  poor,  generous,  bai-e- 
backed  house,  the  English  child  found  a set  of  new  relations  ; 
little  rosy  l)rothers  and  sisters  to  [)la\'  with,  kind  women  to 
take  the  place  of  the  almost  dying  mother,  a good  old  Uncle 
James  to  bring  her  home  ai)[)les  and  care  for  her  — one  and 
all  I’ead}'  to  share  their  little  })ittance  with  her,  and  to  give  her  a 
place  in  their  sini[)le  friendly  hearts.  God  Almighty  bless  the 
widow  and  her  mite,  and  all  the  kind  souls  under  her  roof! 

How  much  goodness  and  generosity  — how  much  purit}^, 
flue  feeling — nay,  hai)piness  — may  dwell  amongst  the  poor 
whom  we  have  been  just  looking  at!  Here,  thank  God,  is  an 
instance  of  this  happy  and  cheerful  povei  ty  : and  it  is  good  to 
look,  when  one  can,  at  the  heart  that  beats  under  the  thread- 
liare  coat,  as  well  as  the  tattered  old  garment  itself.  'Well, 
please  heaven,  some  of  those  iieojile  whom  Ave  have  been  look- 
ing at,  are  as  good,  and  not  much  less  ha[)py  : but  though  the}” 
are  accustomed  to  their  want,  the  stranger  does  not  reconcile 
himself  to  it  quickly;  and  1 ho[)C  no  Irish  reader  will  be  of- 
fended at  my  speaking  of  this  [loverty,  not  with  scorn  or  ill- 
feeling,  but  Avith  hearty  sympath}'  and  good-will. 


One  word  more  regarding  the  'WidoAv  Fagan’s  house.  When 
Peggy  brought  in  coals  for  the  drawing-room  fire,  she  carried 
them  — in  what  do  a^ou  think?  “ Jn  a coal-scuttle,  to  be  sure,” 
says  the  English  reader,  down  on  you  as  sharp  as  a needle. 

No,  3'ou  cleA'er  Englishman,  it  wasn’t  a coal-scuttle. 

“ Well,  then,  it  was  in  a fire-shovel,”  sa}'s  that  brightest  of 
wits,  guessing  again. 

No,  it  loasn’t  a fire-shoAml,  a'ou  heaAmn-born  genius  ; and 
you  might  guess  from  this  until  Mrs.  Snooks  called  }’Ou  up  to 
coffee,  and  you  Avould  never  find  out.  It  was  in  something 
which  I have  alread}"  described  in  Mrs.  Fagan’s  pantiy. 

“ Oh,  I liaA'e  you  uoav,  it  was  the  bucket  where  the  potatoes 
were  ; the  thlatternl^'  wetch  ! ” says  Snooks. 

Wrong  again!  Peggy  brought  up  the  coals  — in  a china 

PLATE  ! 

Snooks  turns  quite  white  with  surprise  and  almost  chokes 
himself  with  his  port.  “Well,”  says  he,  “of  all  the  wum 
countwith  that  I ever  wead  of,  hang  me  if  Ireland  ithn’t  the 
wummetht.  Coalth  in  a plate!  Maw^'ann,  do  a"Ou  hear  that? 
In  Ireland  they  alwa^dh  thend  up  their  coalth  in  a plate  ! ” 


80 


THE  liilSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FROM  CORK  TO  BANTRY  ; WITH  AN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  CITY  OF 

SKIBBEREEN. 

That  light  four-inside,  four-horse  coach,  the  “ Skibbereen 
I’erseverance,”  brought  me  fifty-two  miles  to-da}',  for  the  sum 
of  three-and-sixpence,  through  a country  which  is,  as  usual, 
somewhat  difficult  to  describe.  We  issued  out  of  Cork  b^^  the 
western  road,  in  which,  as  the  Guide-book  sa}'s,  there  is  some- 
thing very  imposing.  “ The  magnificence  of  the  count}"  court- 
house, the  extent,  solidity,  and  characteristic  sternness  of  the 
county  gaol,”  were  visible  to  us  for  a few  minutes  ; when,  turn- 
ing away  southward  from  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  stream,  the 
road  took  us  towards  Bandon,  through  a country  that  is  bare 
and  ragged-looking,  but  yet  green  and  prett}’ ; and  it  always 
seems  to  me,  like  the  people,  to  look  cheerful  in  spite  of  its 
wretchedness,  or,  more  correctly,  to  look  tearful  and  cheerful 
at  the  same  time. 

The  coach,  like  almost  every  other  public  vehicle  I have 
seen  in  Ireland,  was  full  to  the  brim  and  over  it.  What  can 
send  these  restless  people  travelling  and  hurrying  about  from 
})hice  to  place  as  they  do?  I have  heard  one  or  two  gentlemen 
liint  that  tliey  had  business  ” at  this  place  or  that ; and  found 
afterwards  that  one  was  going  a couple  of  score  of  miles  to 
look  at  a mare,  another  to  examine  a setter-dog,  and  so  on. 
I did  not  make  it  my  business  to  ask  on  what  errand  the  gen- 
tlemen on  the  coach  w'cre  bound  ; though  tw'o  of  them,  seeing 
an  Englishman,  very  good-naturedly  began  chalking  out  a route 
for  him  to  take,  and  showing  a sort  of  interest  in  his  affairs 
which  is  not  with  us  generally  exhibited.  The  coach,  too, 
seemed  to  have  tlie  elastic  hospitalit}’  of  some  Irish  houses  ; it 
accommodated  an  almost  impossible  number.  For  the  greater 
jiart  of  the  journey  the  little  guard  sat  on  the  roof  among  the 
carpet-bags,  holding  in  one  hand  a huge  tambour-frame,  in  the 
other  a band-box  marked  “ Foggarty,  Hatter.”  (What  is 
there  more  ridiculous  in  the  name  of  Foggarty  than  in  that  of 
Smith?  and  }'et,  had  Smith  been  the  name,  I never  should 
have  laughed  at  or  remarked  it).  Presently  by  his  side  clam- 
bered a green-coated  policeman  with  his  carbine,  and  w^e  had  a 
talk  about  the  vitriol-throw'ers  at  Cork,  and  the  sentence  just 


THE  nusil  SKETCH  BOOK. 


81 


passed  upon  them.  The  populace  has  decidedl}’  taken  part 
with  the  vitriol-throwers  : parties  of  dragoons  were  obliged  to 
surround  the  avenues  of  the  court ; and  the  judge  who  sen- 
teuce<l  them  was  abused  as  he  eutenal  liis  carriage,  and  called 
an  old  villain,  and  many  other  opi)robious  names. 

'riiis  case  the  reader  very  likel}'  remembers.  A saw-mill 
was  established  at  Cork,  by  which  some  four  hundred  sawyers 
were  thrown  out  of  em[)loy.  Jn  order  to  deter  the  proprietors 
of  this  and  all  other  mills  from  using  such  instruments  further, 
the  sawyers  determined  to  execute  a tenable  vengeance,  and 
cast  lots  among  themselves  which  of  their  bod}’  should  lling 
vitriol  into  the  faces  of  the  mill-owners.  The  men  who  were 
chosen  by  the  lot  were  to  execute  this  horrible  ollice  on  pain 
of  death,  and  did  so,  — frightfully  burning  and  blinding  one  of 
the  gentlemen  owning  the  mill.  Great  rewards  were  offered 
for  the  a[)prehension  of  the  criminals,  and  at  last  one  of  their 
own  body  came  forward  as  an  approver,  and  the  four  principal 
actors  in  this  dreadful  outrage  were  sentenced  to  be  transported 
for  life.  Crowds  of  the  ragged  admirers  of  these  men  were 
standing  round  “the  magnilicent  count}’  court-house”  as  we 
])assed  the  building.  Ours  is  a strange  life  indeed.  What  a 
liistory  of  poverty  and  barbarity,  and  crime  and  even  kindness, 
was  that  by  which  we  passed  before  the  magnilicent  county 
court-house  at  eight  miles  an  hour!  What  a chapter  might  a 
philosopher  write  on  them  I Look  yonder  at  those  two  hundred 
ragged  fellow-subjects  of  yours:  they  are  kind,  good,  pious, 
brutal,  starving.  If  the  priest  tells  them,  there  is  scarce  any 
penance  they  will  not  perform  ; there  is  scarcely  any  pitch  of 
misery  which  they  have  not  been  known  to  endure,  nor  any 
degree  of  generosity  of  which  they  are  not  capable  : but  if  a 
man  comes  among  these  people,  and  can  afford  to  take  land 
over  their  heads,  or  if  he  invents  a machine  which  can  work 
more  economically  than  their  labor,  they  will  shoot  tlie  man 
down  without  mercy,  murder  him,  or  put  him  to  horrible  tor- 
tures, and  glory  almost  in  what  they  do.  There  stand  the  men  ; 
they  are  only  separated  from  us  by  a few  paces  : they  are  as 
fond  of  their  mothers  and  children  as  we  are  ; their  gratitude 
for  small  kindnesses  shown  to  them  is  extraordinary ; they  are 
Christians  as  we  are  ; but  interfere  with  their  interests,  and 
they  will  murder  }’ou  without  pity. 

It  is  not  revenge  so  much  which  these  poor  fellows  take,  as 
a brutal  justice  of  their  own.  Now,  will  it  seem  a paradox  to 
say,  in  regard  to  them  and  their  murderous  system,  that  the 
way  to  put  an  end  to  the  latter  is  to  kill  them  no  more  ! Let  the 

0 


82 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


priest  be  able  to  go  amongst  them  and  sa}’,  The  law  holds  a 
man’s  life  so  sacred  that  it  will  on  no  account  take  it  away.  No 
man,  nor  body  of  men,  has  a right  to  meddle  with  human  life ; 
not  the  Commons  of  England  any  more  than  the  Commons  of 
Tipperary.  This  maj,'  cost  two  or  three  lives,  probably,  until 
such  time  as  the  s}'stem  may  come  to  be  known  and  under- 
stood ; but  which  will  be  the  greatest  econoni}"  of  blood  in  the 
end  ? 

this  time  the  vitriol-men  wmre  long  passed  away,  and  we 
began  next  to  talk  about  the  Cork  and  London  steamboats  ; 
which  are  made  to  pay,  on  account  of  the  number  of  paupers 
whom  the  boats  bring  over  from  London  at  the  charge  of  that 
cit}\  The  passengei’s  found  here,  as  in  eveiy thing  else  almost 
which  I have  seen  as  yet,  another  instance  of  the  injuiy  which 
England  inflicts  on  them.  “As  long  as  these  men  are  strong 
and  can  work,”  says  one,  “ 3’ou  keep  them  ; when  they  are  in 
bad  health,  you  fling  them  upon  us.”  Nor  could  I convince  him 
that  the  agricultural  gentlemen  were  perfectly  free  to  sta}"  at  home 
if  the}’  liked  : that  we  did  for  them  what  was  done  for  English 
paupers  — sent  them,  namely,  as  far  as  possible  on  the  way  to 
their  parishes  ; nay,  that  some  of  them  (as  I have  seen  with 
my  own  eyes)  actn all}’ saved  a bit  of  money  during  the  harvest, 
and  took  this  cheai)  way  of  conveying  it  and  themselves  to  their 
homes  again.  But  nothing  would  convince  the  gentleman  that 
there  was  not  some  wicked  scheming  on  the  part  of  the  English 
in  the  business  ; and,  indeed,  I And  upon  almost  every  other 
subject  a })eevish  and  puerile  suspiciousness  which  is  w’orthy  of 
Erance  itself. 

By  this  time  we  came  to  a pretty  village  called  Innishannon, 
u[)on  the  noble  banks  of  the  Bandon  river;  leading  for  three 
miles  by  a great  number  of  pleasant  gentlemen’s  seats  to  Ban- 
don town.  A good  number  of  large  mills  were  on  the  banks 
of  tlie  stream  ; and  the  chief  part  of  them,  as  in  Carlow,  use- 
less. One  mill  we  saw  was  too  small  for  the  owner’s  great 
speculations  ; and  so  he  built  another  and  larger  one  : the  big 
mill  cost  hijn  10,000/.,  for  which  his  brothers  went  security; 
and,  a lawsuit  being  given  against  the  mill-owner,  the  two  mills 
stopped,  the  two  brotliers  went  off,  and  yon  fine  old  house,  in 
the  style  of  Anne,  with  terraces  and  tall  chimneys  — one  of  the 
oldest  country-houses  I have  seen  in  Ireland  — is  now  inhab- 
ited by  the  natural  son  of  the  mill-owner,  who  has  more  such 
interesting  progeny.  Then  we  came  to  a tall,  comfortable 
house,  in  a plantation  ; opposite  to  which  was  a stone  castle, 
ill  its  shrubberies  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  The  tall  house 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


83 


in  the  plantation  shot  the  opposite  side  of  the  roaci  in  a duel, 
and  nearly  killed  him  ; on  which  the  opposite  side  of  the  road 
built  this  castle,  in  order  to  plague  the  tall  house.  The}’  are 
good  friends  now  ; but  the  op[)Osite  side  of  the  road  ruined 
himself  in  building  his  house.  I asked,  “Is  the  house  fin- 
ished?” — good  deal  of  it  isf  was  the  ansAver.  — And  then 
we  came  to  a brewery,  about  which  was  a similar  story  of 
extravagance  and  ruin  ; but,  whether  before  or  alter  entering 
Bandon,  does  not  matter. 

We  did  not,  it  appears,  pass  through  the  l)est  part  of  Ban- 
don : I looked  along  one  side  of  the  houses  in  the  long  street 
through  which  we  Avent,  to  see  if  there  Avas  a AvindoAv  Avithout 
a broken  [)ane  of  glass,  and  can  dechu’c  on  my  conscience  that 
every  single  windoAv  had  three  Ijroken  i)anes.  There  Ave  changed 
horses,  in  a market-place,  suri-oundcd,  as  usual,  by  beggars  ; 
then  Ave  passed  through  a suburb  still  more  Avretched  and  ruin- 
ous than  the  first  street,  and  Avhich,  in  ver}'  large  letters,  is 
called  DOYLE  street  : and  the  next  stage  Avas  at  a place  called 
DunmanAvay. 

Here  it  Avas  market-day,  too,  and,  as  usual,  no  lack  of  at- 
tendants : SAvarms  of  })easauts  in  their  blue  cloaks,  squatting 
by  their  stalls  here  and  there.  There  is  a little  miserable  old 
market-house,  Avhere  a fcAv  women  AA  ere  selling  buttermilk ; an- 
other, bullocks’  hearts,  liver,  and  such  like  scra[)s  of  meat ; 
another  had  dried  mackerel  on  a board  ; and  plenty  of  i)(M>})le 
huckstering  of  course.  Round  the  coach  came  croAvds  of  )‘ag- 
gery,  and  blackguards  hiAvning  for  money.  I Avonder  avIio  gives 
them  any  ! I have  never  seen  any  one  giA’e  yet ; and  Avere 
they  not  even  so  numerous  that  it  Avould  be  imi)ossible  to  gratily 
them  all,  there  is  something  in  their  cant  and  supplications 
to  the  Lord  so  disgusting  to  me,  that  I could  not  give  a half- 
penny. 

In  regard  of  prett}’  faces,  male  or  female,  this  road  is  very 
unfavorable.  I have  not  seen  one  for  fift}’  miles  ; though,  as 
it  was  market-day  all  along  the  road,  we  have  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  examine  vast  numbers  of  countenances.  The  women 
are,  for  the  most  part,  stunted,  short,  with  fiat  Tartar  faces  ; 
and  the  men  no  handsomer.  Eveiy  Avoman  has  bare  legs,  of 
course  ; and  as  the  weather  is  fine,  the}’  are  sitting  outside  their 
cabins,  with  the  pig,  and  the  geese,  and  the  children  sporting 
around. 

Before  many  doors  we  saw  a little  fiock  of  these  useful  ani- 
mals, and  the  family  pig  almost  everywhere  : you  might  see 
him  browsing  and  poking  along  the  hedges,  his  fore  and  hind 


84 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


leg  attached  with  a wisp  of  hay  to  check  his  propensity  to 
roaming.  Here  and  there  were  a small  brood  of  turkeys  ; now 
and  then  a couple  of  sheep  or  a single  one  grazing  upon  a 
scanty  field,  of  which  the  chief  crop  seemed  to  be  thistles  and 
stone  ; and,  by  tlie  side  of  the  cottage,  the  potato-field  alwa}'s. 

The  character  of  the  landscape  for  the  most  part  is  bare  and 
sad ; except  here  and  there  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  towns, 
where  people  have  taken  a fanc}'to  plant,  and  where  nature  has 
helped  them,  as  it  almost  alwa}'s  will  in  this  countr}\  If  we 
saw  a field  with  a good  hedge  to  it,  we  were  sure  to  see  a'good 
crop  inside.  Many  a field  was  there  that  had  neither  crop  nor 
hedge.  We  passed  by  and  over  maii}^  prett}^  streams,  running 
bright  through  brilliant  emerald  meadows  : and  I saw  a thou- 
sand charming  pictures,  which  want  as  yet  an  Irish  Berghem. 
A bright  road  winding  up  a hill ; on  it  a country  cart,  with  its 
load,  stretching  a huge  shadow ; the  before-mentioned  emerald 
})astures  and  silver  rivers  in  the  foreground  ; a noble  sweep  of 
hills  rising  up  from  them,  and  contrasting  their  magnificent 
purple  with  the  green  ; in  the  extreme  distance  the  clear  cold 
outline  of  some  far-olf  mountains,  and  the  white  clouds  tumbled 
about  in  the  blue  sky  overhead.  It  has  no  doubt  struck  all 
})crsons  who  love  to  look  at  nature,  how  different  the  skies  are 
in  dilferent  countries.  I fancy  Irish  or  French  clouds  are  as 
characteristic  as  Irish  or  French  landscapes.  It  would  be  well 
to  have  a daguerreotypes  and  get  a series  of  each.  Some  way 
be3'ond  Dunmanway  the  road  takes  us  through  a noble  savage 
countrv  of  rocks  and  heath.  Nor  must  the  painter  forget  long 
black  tracts  of  bog  here  and  there,  and  the  water  glistening 
bright Iv  at  the  places  where  the  turf  has  been  cut  away.  Add 
to  this,  and  chielh'  by  the  banks  of  rivers,  a ruined  old  castle 
or  two  : some  were  built  by  the  Danes,  it  is  said.  The  O’Con- 
nors, the  O’Mahonys,  the  (j’l)riscolls  were  lords  of  man}'  others, 
and  their  ruined  towers  may  be  seen  here  and  along  the  sea. 

Near  Dunmanway  that  great  coach,  ‘'The  Skibbereen  In- 
dustry,” dashed  by  us  at  seven  miles  an  hour ; a wondrous 
vehicle  : there  were  gaps  between  every  one  of  the  panels  ; you 
couhl  see  daylight  through-and-through  it.  Like  our  machine, 
it  was  full,  with  three  complementary  sailors  on  the  roof,  as 
little  harness  as  possible  to  the  horses,  and  as  long  stages  as 
horses  can  well  endure  : ours  were  each  eighteen-mile  stages. 
About  eight  miles  from  Skibbereen  a one-horse  car  met  us,  and 
carried  away  an  offshoot  of  passengers  to  Bantry.  Five  pas- 
sengers and  their  luggage,  and  a very  wild,  steep  road  : all  this 
had  one  poor  little  pony  to  overcome  ! About  the  towns  there 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


85 


were  some  show  of  gentlemen’s  cars,  smart  and  well  appointed, 
and  on  the  road  great  numhers  of  country  carts  : an  arm}'  of 
them  met  us  coming  from  Skibhereen,  and  laden  with  gray  sand 
for  manure. 

Before  you  enter  the  city  of  Skibhereen,  the  tall  new  poor- 
house  })resents  itself  to  the  eye  of  the  traveller  ; of  the  common 
model,  being  a bastard-Oothic  edifice,  with  a pi’ofusion  of  cot- 
tage-ornce  (is  cottage  masculine  or  Icminine  in  French?) — of 
cottage-ornec  roofs,  and  [)innacles,  and  insolent-looking  stacks 
of  chimneys.  It  is  built  for  900  peo[)le,  but  as  yet  not  more 
than  400  have  been  induced  to  live  in  it ; the  beggars  preferring 
the  freedom  of  their  precarious  trade  to  the  dismal  certainty 
within  its  walls.  Next  we  come  to  the  cha[)el.  a very  large, 
respectal)lc-looking  Imilding  of  dark-gray  stone;  and  presently, 
l)ehold,  by  tlie  crowd  of  blackguards  in  waiting,  “The  Skib- 
bereen  Perseverance”  has  found  its  goal,  and  you  arc  inducted 
to  the  “ hotel”  opposite. 

Some  gentlemen  were  at  the  coach,  besides  those  of  lower 
degree.  Here  was  a fat  fellow  with  large  whiskers,  a geranium, 
and  a cigar  ; yonder  a tall  handsome  old  man  that  I would 
swear  was  a dragoon  on  half-pay.  lie  had  a little  cap,  a Tag- 
lioni  coat,  a pair  of  beautiful  spaniels,  and  a pair  of  knee- 
breeches  which  showed  a very  handsome  old  leg ; and  his  object 
seemed  to  be  to  invite  everybody  to  dinner  as  they  got  off  the 
coach.  No  doubt  he  has  seen  the  “ Skib1)ereen  Perseverance  ” 
come  in  ever  since  it  was  a “Perseverance.”  It  is  wonderful 
to  think  what  will  interest  men  in  prisons  or  country  towns  ! 

There  is  a dirty  coffee-room,  with  a strong  smell  of  whiskey  ; 
indeed  three  young  “ materialists  ” are  employed  at  the  mo- 
ment : and  I hereby  beg  to  offer  an  apology  to  three  other 
gentlemen  — the  captain,  another,  and  the  gentleman  of  the 
geranium,  who  had  caught  hold  of  a sketching-stool  which  is 
my  property,  and  were  stretching  it,  and  sitting  upon  it,  and 
wondering,  and  talking  of  it,  when  the  owner  came  in,  and  they 
bounced  off  to  their  seats  like  so  many  school-boys.  Dirty  as 
the  place  was,  this  was  no  reason  why  it  should  not  produce  an 
exuberant  dinner  of  trout  and  Kerry  mutton  ; after  which  Dan 
the  waiter,  holding  up  a dingy  decanter,  asks  how  much  whiskey 
I’d  have. 

That  calculation  need  not  be  made  here  ; and  if  a man  sleeps 
well,  has  he  any  need  to  quarrel  with  the  appointments  of  his 
bedroom,  and  spy  out  the  deficiencies  of  the  land?  As  it  was 
Sunday,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  say  what  sort  of  shops 
“ the  active  and  flourishing  town  ” of  Skibhereen  contains. 


86 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


There  were  some  of  the  architectural  sort,  viz.  with  gilt  letters 
and  cracked  mouldings,  and  others  into  which  I thought  I saw 
the  cows  walking  ; but  it  was  011I3’  into  their  little  cribs  and 
paddocks  at  the  back  of  the  shops.  There  is  a trim  Wesle}’an 
chapel,  without  any  broken  windows  ; a neat  church  standing 
modestlj’  on  one  side.  The  Lower  Street  crawls  along  the 
river  to  a considerable  extent,  having  b}’-streets  and  boulevards 
of  cabins  here  and  there. 

The  people  came  flocking  into  the  place  by  hundreds,  and 
you  saw  their  blue  cloaks  dotting  the  road  and  the  bare  open 
[)lains  be3’ond.  The  men  came  with  shoes  and  stockings  to-da}', 
the  women  all  barelegged,  and  many  of  them  might  be  seen 
washing  their  feet  in  the  stream  before  the}"  went  up  to  the 
chapel.  The  street  seemed  to  be  lined  on  cither  side  with  blue 
cloaks,  squatting  along  the  doorways  as  is  their  wont.  Among 
these,  numberless  cows  were  walking  to  and  fro,  and  pails  of 
milk  passing,  and  here  and  there  a hound  or  two  went  stalk- 
ing about.  Dan  the  waiter  says  they  are  hunted  by  the  hand- 
some old  captain  who  was  yesterday  inviting  everybody  to 
dinner. 

Anybody  at  eight  o’clock  of  a Sunday  morning  in  summer 
may  behold  the  above  scene  from  a bridge  just  outside  the  town, 
lie  may  add  to  it  the  river,  with  one  or  two  barges  lying  idle 
upon  it ; a flag  flying  at  what  looks  like  a custom-house ; bare 
country  all  around  ; and  the  chapel  before  him,  with  a swarm 
of  the  dark  figures  round  about  it. 

1 went  into  it,  not  without  awe  (for,  as  I confessed  before, 
1 always  feel  a sort  of  tremor  on  going  into  a Catholic  place  of 
worship  : the  candles,  and  altars,  and  m}"steries,  the  priest  and 
his  robes,  and  nasal  chanting,  and  wonderful  genuflexions, 
will  frighten  me  as  long  as  1 liye).  The  chapel-yard  was  filled 
with  men  and  women  ; a couple  of  shabby  old  beadles  were  at 
tlie  gate  with  copper  shovels  to  collect  money ; and  inside  the 
chapel  four  or  five  hundred  people  were  on  their  knees,  and 
scores  more  of  the  blue-mantles  came  in,  dropping  their  curt- 
sies as  they  entered,  and  then  taking  their  places  on  the  flags. 

And  now  the  pangs  of  hunger  beginning  to  make  themselves 
felt,  it  became  necessary  for  your  humble  servant  (after  making 
several  useless  applications  to  a l)ell,  which  properly  declined 
to  work  on  Sundays)  to  make  a personal  descent  to  the  inn- 
kitchen,  where  was  not  a bad  study  for  a painter.  It  was  a, 
huge  room,  with  a peat  tire  burning,  and  a staircase  walking  up 
one  side  of  it,  on  which  stair  was  a damsel  in  a partial  though 
by  no  means  picturesque  dishabille.  The  cook  had  just  come  ir> 


TilE  IKiSll  SKETCH  BOOK. 


87 


with  a great  frothing  pail  of  milk,  and  sat  with  her  arms  folded  ; 
the  ostler’s  bo}'  sat  dangling  his  legs  from  the  table  ; the  ostler 
was  dandling  a noble  little  boy  of  a }’ear  old,  at  whom  Mrs. 
Cook  likewise  grinned  delighted.  Here,  too,  sat  Mr.  Dan  the 
waiter;  and  no  wonder  the  bi'eakfast  was  delayed,  for  all  three 
of  these  wortli}”  domesties  seemed  delighted  with  the  infant. 

He  was  handed  over  to  the  gentleman’s  aians  lor  the  S}>ace 
of  thirt}'  seconds  ; the  gentleman  being  the  father  of  a family, 
and  of  course  an  amateur. 

“ Say  Dan  for  the  gentleman,”  sa3's  the  delighted  cook. 

“ Dada,”  says  the  baby  ; at  which  the  assembl}'  grinned  with 
joy:  and  Dan  promised  I should  have  1113'  breakfast  “in  a 
hurry.” 

But  of  all  the  wonderful  things  to  be  seen  in  Skibbereen, 
Dan’s  pantiy  is  the  most  wonderful:  every  article  within  is  a 
makeshift,  and  has  been  ingeniously  perverted  from  its  original 
destination.  Here  lie  bread,  blacking,  fresh  butter,  tallow- 
candles,  dirt3'  knives — all  in  the  same  cigar-box  with  snuff, 
milk,  cold  bacon,  brown  sugar,  broken  teacups,  and  bits  of  soap. 
No  pen  can  describe  that  establishment,  as  no  English  imagina- 
tion could  have  conceived  it.  But  lo  ! the  sk3'  has  cleared  after 
a furious  fall  of  rain  — (in  compliance  with  Dan’s  statement  to 
that  effect,  “ that  the  weather  would  be  fine”)  — and  a car  is 
waiting  to  carry  us  to  Lougliine. 

Although  the  description  of  Lougliine  can  make  but  a poor 
figure  in  a book,  the  ride  thither  is  well  worth  the  traveller’s 
short  labor.  You  pass  b3'  one  of  the  cabin-streets  out  of  the 
town  into  a countiy  which  for  a mile  is  rich  with  grain,  though 
bare  of  trees  ; then  through  a bogg3^  bleak  district,  from  which 
you  enter  into  a sort  of  sea  of  rocks,  with  patches  of  herbage 
here  and  there.  Before  the  traveller,  almost  all  the  wa3',  is 
a huge  pile  of  purple  mountain,  on  which,  as  one  comes  nearer, 
one  perceives  numberless  waves  and  breaks,  as  you  see  small 
waves  on  a billow  in  the  sea  ; then  clambering  up  a hill,  we  look 
down  upon  a bright  green  flat  of  land,  with  the  lake  beyond 
it,  girt  round  b3"  gi'EV  melancholy  hills.  The  water  ma3"  be 
a mile  in  extent ; a cabin  tops  the  mountain  here  and  there  ; 
gentlemen  have  erected  one  or  two  anchorite  pleasure-houses  on 
the  banks,  as  cheerful  as  a summer-house  would  be  on  Salisbuiy 
Plain.  I felt  not  sorry  to  have  seen  this  lonel3^  lake,  and  still 
happier  to  leave  it.  There  it  lies  with  crags  all  round  it,  in  the 
midst  of  desolate  plains  : it  escapes  somewhere  to  the  sea  ; its 
waters  are  salt : half  a dozen  boats  lie  here  and  there  upon  its 
banks,  and  we  saw  a small  crew  of  boys  plashing  about  and 


88 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


swimming  in  it,  laughing  and  yelling.  It  seemed  a shame  to 
disturb  the  silence  so. 

Tlie  crowd  of  swaggering  “ gents”  (I  don’t  know  the  corre- 
sponding phrase  in  the  Anglo-Irish  vocabnlaiy  to  express  a 
shabby  dandy)  awaiting  the  Cork  mail,  which  kindly  goes 
twenty  miles  out  of  its  way  to  accommodate  the  town  of  Skib- 
bereen,  was  quite  extraordinaiy.  The  little  street  was  quite 
blocked  up  with  shablyy  gentlemen,  and  shabby  beggars,  await- 
ing this  daily  phenomenon.  The  man  who  had  driven  ns  to 
, Longhine  did  not  fail  to  ask  for  his  fee  as  driver ; and  then, 
having  received  it,  came  forward  in  his  capacity  of  boots  and 
received  another  remuneration.  The  ride  is  desolate,  bare, 
and  yet  beautiful.  There  are  a set  of  hills  that  keep  one  com- 
paiy  the  whole  wa}’ ; they  were  partially  hidden  in  a gray  sk3', 
which  flung  a general  hue  of  melanchol}’  too  over  the  green 
conntiy  through  which  we  i)assed.  There  was  onl}^  one  wretched 
village  along  the  road,  but  no  lack  of  population  : ragged  people 
who  issued  from  their  cabins  as  the  coach  passed,  or  w'ere 
sitting  by  the  wayside.  Everybody  seems  sitting  b}’  the  wa}'- 
side  here:  one  never  sees  this  general  repose  in  England — a 
sort  of  ragged  lazy  contentment.  All  the  children  seem  to  be 
on  the  watch  for  the  coach  ; waited  veiy  knowingly  and  care- 
fnll}'  their  opportunity,  and  then  hung  on  by  scores  behind. 
AVhat  a pleasure  to  run  over  lliiitv  roads  with  bare  feet,  to  be 
whipped  off,  and  to  walk  back  to  the  cabin  again  ! These  were 
very  dillerent  cottages  to  those  neat  ones  I had  seen  in  Kildare. 
The  wretchedness  of  them  is  quite  painful  to  look  at ; man}’  of 
the  potato-gardens  were  half  dug  iq),  and  it  is  only  the  first 
week  in  August,  near  three  months  before  the  potato  is  ripe  and 
at  full  growth  ; and  the  winter  still  six  months  away.  There 
were  chapels  occasionally,  and  smart  new-built  churches  — one 
of  them  has  a congregation  of  ten  souls,  the  coachman  told  me. 
Would  it  not  be  l)etter  that  the  clergyman  should  receive  them 
in  his  room,  and  that  the  church-building  money  should  be 
bestowed  otherwise  ? — 

At  length,  after  winding  up  all  sorts  of  dismal  hills  speckled 
with  wretched  hovels,  a ruinous  mill  every  now’  and  then,  black 
bog-lands,  and  small  w’inding  streams,  breaking  here  and  there 
into  little  falls,  we  come  upon  some  ground  w’ell  tilled  and 
planted,  and  descending  (at  no  small  risk  from  stumbling 
horses)  a bleak  long  hill,  we  see  the  water  before  us,  and  turn- 
ing to  the  right  by  the  handsome  little  park  of  Lord  Bearhaven, 
enter  Bantry.  The  harbor  is  beautiful.  Small  mountains  in 
green  undulations  rising  on  the  opposite  side  ; great  gray  ones 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


89 


farther  back  ; a [)retty  island  in  llie  midst  of  the  water,  which  is 
wonderfnll}'  briglit  and  calm.  A handsome  yacht,  and  two  or 
three  vessels  with  their  Sunday  colors  out,  were  lying  in  the 
ba3\  It  looked  like  a seM[)ort  scene  at  a theatre,  gay,  cheerl'nl, 
neat,  and  picturesque.  At  a little  distance  the  town,  too,  is 
veiy  pretty.  There  are  some  smart  houses  on  the  quays,  a 
handsome  court-house  as  usual,  a line  large  hotel,  and  plenty  of 
people  Hocking  round  the  wonderful  coach. 

The  town  is  most  picturescpiely  situated,  climl)ing  up  a 
wooded  hill,  with  nunil)ers  of  neat  cottages  here  and  tlieixq  an 
uglv  church  with  an  air  of  i)retension,  and  a laig-e  grave  Roman 
Catholic  clia[)cl  the  highest  [)oint  of  the  place.  The  IMain 
Street  was  as  usual  thronged  with  the  sciuatting  blue  cloaks, 
carrying  on  their  eager  trade  of  buttermilk  and  green  apples, 
and  such  cheap  wares.  AVith  the  exception  of  this  street  and  tlu; 
quay,  with  their  whiU'washed  and  slated  houses,  it  is  a town  of 
cabins.  The  wretchedness  of  some  of  them  is  quite  curious:  I 
tried  to  make  a sketch  of  a row  which  lean  against  an  old  wall, 
and  are  built  upon  a rock  that  tumbles  about  in  the  oddest  and 
most  fantastic  sha[)cs,  with  a brawling  waterfall  dashing  down 
a channel  in  the  midst.  These  are,  it  ap})ears,  the  l)eggars’ 
houses  : any  one  may  build  a lodge  against  that  wall,  rent-tree  ; 
and  such  places  wei’e  never  seen  ! As  for  drawing  them,  it  was 
ill  vain  to  trv  ; one  might  as  well  make  a sketch  of  a bundle  of 
rags.  An  ordinary  [ligstv  in  England  is  reall\'  more  comfort- 
able. IMost  of  them  were  not  six  feet  long  or  live  feet  high, 
Iniilt  of  stones  huddled  together,  a hole  being  left  for  the  peo})le 
to  creep  in  at,  a ruined  thatch  to  keep  out  some  little  portion  of 
the  rain.  The  occiqiiers  of  these  places  sat  at  their  doors  in 
tolerable  contentment,  or  the  children  came  down  and  washed 
their  feet  in  the  water.  I declare  1 believe  a Hottentot  kraal 
has  more  comforts  in  it : even  to  write  of  the  place  makes  one 
unliapp3g  and  the  words  move  slow.  But  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  iniseiy  there  is  an  air  of  actual  cheerfulness  ; and  go  but  a 
few  score  3’ards  otf,  and  these  wretched  hovels  lying  together 
look  reall3^  picturesque  and  pleasing. 


90 


THE  llUbil  SKETCH  BOOK. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

RAINY  DAYS  AT  GLENGARIFF. 

A SMART  two-liorse  car  takes  the  traveller  thrice  a week 
from  Baiitry  to  Kiilarne}',  b}'  way  of  Glengariff  and  Kenmare. 
Unluckily',  the  rain  was  pouring  down  furiously’  as  we  passed 
to  the  first-named  places,  and  we  had  only  opportunity  to  see 
a part  of  the  astonishing  beauty  of  the  country.  What  sends 
picturesque  tourists  to  the  Rhine  and  Saxon  Switzerland? 
within  five  miles  round  the  pretty  inn  of  Glengariff  there  is  a 
countiy  of  the  magnificence  of  which  no  pen  can  gire  an  idea. 
I would  like  to  be  a great  prince,  and  bring  a train  of  painters 
over  to  make,  if  the}^  could,  and  according  to  their  several 
capabilities,  a set  of  pictures  of  the  place.  Mr.  Creswick 
would  find  such  rivulets  and  waterfalls,  surrounded  b}^  a luxu- 
riance of  foliage  and  verdure  that  onl}^  his  pencil  can  imitate. 
As  for  Mr.  Cattermole,  a red-shanked  Irishman  should  carr3^ 
his  sketching-books  to  all  sorts  of  wild  noble  heights,  and  vast 
rocky  valle3^s,  where  he  might  please  himself  by  piling  crag 
upon  crag,  and  by  introducing,  if  he  had  a mind,  some  of  the 
wild  figures  which  peopled  this  countiy  in  old  days.  There  is 
the  Eagle’s  Nest,  for  instance,  regarding  which  the  Guide-book 
gives  a prett}’  legend.  The  Prince  of  Bantiy  being  conquered 
by  the  English  soldiers,  fled  awa}^  leaving  his  Princess  and 
children  to  the  care  of  a certain  faithful  follower  of  his,  who 
was  to  provide  them  with  refuge  and  food.  But  the  whole 
countiy  was  overrun  b}^  the  conquerors  ; all  the  flocks  driven 
awa}-"  b}^  them,  all  the  houses  ransacked,  and  the  crops  burnt 
off  the  ground,  and  the  faithful  servitor  did  not  know  where 
he  should  find  a meal  or  a resting-place  for  the  unhappy  Prin- 
cess O’Donovan. 

He  made,  however,  a sort  of  shed  by  the  side  of  a moun- 
tain, composing  it  of  sods  and  stones  so  artfully  that  no  one 
could  tell  but  that  it  was  a part  of  the  hill  itself;  and  here, 
having  speared  or  otherwise  obtained  a salmon,  he  fed  their 
Highnesses  for  the  first  da}" ; trusting  to  heaven  for  a meal 
when  the  salmon  should  be  ended. 

The  Princess  O’DonoA^an  and  her  princel}"  family  soon  came 
to  an  end  of  the  fish ; and  cried  out  for  something  more. 

So  the  faithful  servitor,  taking  with  him  a rope  and  his  little 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


91 


soil  Shanms,  mounted  up  to  the  peak  where  the  eagles  rested  ; 
and,  from  the  spot  to  which  he  climbed,  saw  their  nest,  and 
the  young  eaglets  in  it,  in  a cleft  below  the  precipice. 

“Now,”  said  he,  “ Shamus  my  son,  you  must  take  these 
thongs  with  you,  and  I will  let  you  down  b}^  the  rope  ” (it  was 
a straw-rope,  which  he  had  made  himself,  and  though  it  might 
be  considered  a dangerous  thread  to  hang  b}’  in  other  coun- 
tries, you’ll  see  plenty  of  such  contrivances  in  Ireland  to  the 
present  day). 

“I  will  let  3^011  down  by  the  rope,  and  3'ou  must  tie  the 
thongs  round  the  necks  of  the  eaglets,  not  so  as  to  choke  them, 
but  to  prevent  them  from  swallowing  much.”  80  Shamus  went 
down  and  did  as  his  father  bade  him,  and  came  up  again  when 
the  eaglets  were  doctored. 

Presently  the  eagles  came  home  : one  bringing  a rabbit  and 
the  other  a grouse.  These  the}’  dropped  into  the  nest  for  the 
young  ones  ; and  soon  after  went  away  in  quest  of  other  ad- 
ventures. 

Then  Shamus  went  down  into  the  eagle’s  nest  again,  gutted 
the  grouse  and  rabbit,  and  left  the  garbage  to  the  eaglets  (as 
was  their  riglit),  and  brought  away  the  rest.  And  so  the  Prin- 
cess and  Princes  had  game  that  night  for  their  supper.  How 
long  the}’  lived  in  this  way,  the  Guide-book  does  not  say : but 
let  us  trust  that  the  Prince,  if  he  did  not  come  to  his  own  again, 
was  at  least  restored  to  his  family  and  decently  mediatized  : 
and,  for  my  part,  I have  very  little  doubt  but  that  Shamus, 
the  gallant  young  eagle-robber,  created  a favorable  impression 
upon  one  of  the  young  Princesses,  and  (after  many  adventures 
in  which  he  distinguished  himself,)  was  accepted  by  her  High- 
ness for  a husband,  and  her  princely  parents  for  a gallant  son- 
in-law. 

And  here,  while  we  are  travelling  to  Glengarilf,  and  order- 
ing painters  about  with  such  princely  libei’ality  (by  the  way, 
^Ir.  Stanfield  should  have  a boat  in  the  bay,  and  paint  both 
rock  and  sea  at  his  ease) , let  me  mention  a wonderful,  awful 
incident  of  real  life  which  occurred  on  the  road.  About  four 
miles  from  Bantry,  at  a beautiful  wooded  place,  hard  by  a mill 
and  waterfall,  up  rides  a gentleman  to  the  car  with  his  luggage, 
going  to  Killarney  races.  The  luggage  consisted  of  a small 
carpet-bag  and  a pistol-case.  About  two  miles  farther  on,  a 
fellow  stops  the  car:  “ Joe,”  says  he,  “ my  master  is  going  to 
ride  to  Killarney,  so  you  please  to  take  his  luggage.”  The 
luggage  consisted  of  a small  carpet-bag,  and  — a pistol-case 


92 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


as  before.  Is  this  a gentleman’s  usual  travelling  baggage  in 
Ireland  ? 

As  there  is  more  rain  in  this  countiy  than  in  an}^  other,  and 
as,  therefore,  naturally’  the  inhabitants  should  be  inured  to  the 
weather,  and  made  to  despise  an  inconvenience  which  they 
cannot  avoid,  the  travelling-conveyances  are  arranged  so  that 
you  may  get  as  much  practice  in  being  wet  a^  possible.  The 
traveller’s  baggage  is  stowed  in  a place  between  the  two  rows 
of  seats,  and  which  is  not  inaptH  called  the  well,  as  in  a rainy 
season  you  might  possibH  get  a bucketful  of  water  out  of  that 
orifice.  And  I confess  I saw,  with  a horrid  satisfaction,  the 
pair  of  pistol-cases  lying  in  this  moist  apertiu’e,  with  water 
pouring  above  them  and  lying  below  them ; na^^,  pra3’ed  that 
all  such  weapons  might  one  da}'  be  consigned  to  the  same  fate. 
But  as  the  waiter  at  Bantry,  in  his  excessive  zeal  to  serve  me, 
had  sent  my  portmanteau  back  to  Cork  by  the  coach,  instead 
of  allowing  me  to  carry  it  with  me  to  Killarney,  and  as  the  rain 
had  long  since  begun  to  insinuate  itself  under  the  seat-cushion 
and  through  the  waterproof  apron  of  the  car,  I dropped  off  at 
Glengariff,  and  dried  the  only  suit  of  clothes  I had  by  the 
kitchen-fire.  The  inn  is  very  pretty  : some  thorn-trees  stand 
before  it,  where  many  barelegged  people  were  lolling,  in  spite 
of  the  w'eather.  A beautiful  bay  stretches  out  before  the  house, 
:he  full  tide  washing  the  thorn-trees  ; mountains  rise  on  either 
side  of  the  little  bay,  and  there  is  an  island,  with  a castle  in  it, 
in  l)ie  midst,  near  which  a yacht  was  moored.  But  the  moun- 
tains were  hardly  visible  for  the  mist,  and  the  yacht,  island, 
and  castle  looked  as  if  they  had  been  washed  against  the  flat 
gray  sky  in  Indian-ink. 

The  day  did  not  clear  up  sufficiently  to  allow  me  to  make 
any  long  excursion  about  the  place,  or  indeed  to  see  a very 
wide  prospect  round  about  it:  at  a few  hundred  yards,  most 
of  the  objects  were  enveloped  in  mist ; but  even  this,  for  a 
lover  of  the  picturesque,  had  its  beautiful  effect,  for  you  saw 
the  hills  in  the  foreground  pretty  clear,  and  covered  with  their 
wonderful  green,  while  immediately  behind  them  rose  an  im- 
mense blue"  mass  of  mist  and  mountain  that  served  to  relieve 
(to  use  the  painter’s  phrase)  the  nearer  objects.  Annexed  to 
the  hotel  is  a fioui-ishing  garden,  where  the  vegetation  is  so 
great  that  the  landlord  told  me  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  check 
the  trees  from  growing  : round  about  the  bay,  in  several  places, 
they  come  clustering  down  to  the  water’s  edge,  nor  does  the 
salt-water  interfere  with  them. 

Winding  up  a hill  to  the  right,  as  you  quit  the  inn,  is  the 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


93 


beautiful  road  to  the  cottage  and  park  of  Lord  Bantr3^  One 
or  two  parties  on  pleasure  bent  went  so  far  as  the  house,  and 
were  partially  consoled  for  the  dreadful  rain  which  [)resentl>' 
poured  down  upon  them,  l^y  wine,  whiskey’,  and  refreshments 
which  the  liberal  owner  of  the  house  sent  out  to  them.  I my- 
self had  onl}’  got  a few  hundred  yards  when  the  Vain  overtook 
me,  and  sent  me  for  refuge  into  a shed,  where  a blacksmitli 
liad  arranged  a rude  (‘urnace  and  bellows,  and  where  he  was 
at  work,  with  a rough  gill}'  to  help  him,  and  of  course  a lounger 
or  two  to  look  on. 

The  scene  was  exceedingly  wild  and  [)icturcsque,  and  I took 
out  a sketch-book  and  began  to  draw.  The  blacksmith  was  at 
lirst  veiy  sus[)icious  of  tlie  operation  which  I had  commenced, 
nor  did  the  [)Oor  fellow’s  sternness  at  all  yi(dd  until  I made  him 
a present  of  a shilling  to  buy  tobacco  — when  he,  his  friend, 
and  his  son  became  good-humored,  and  said  tlieir  little  sa}'. 
This  was  the  first  shilling  he  had  earned  these  three  3’ears  : he 
was  a small  farmer,  but  was  starved  out,  and  had  set  up  a 
forge  here,  and  was  trying  to  get  a few  pence.  What  struck 
me  was  the  great  number  of  people  about  the  idace.  \V"e  had 
at  least  twenty  visits  while  the  sketch  was  being  made  ; cars, 
and  single  and  double  horsemen,  were  continuall3’  passing; 
between  the  intervals  of  the  shower  a couple  of  ragged  old 
women  w'ould  creep  out  from  some  hole  and  displa3^  baskets 
of  green  apples  for  sale  : wet  or  not,  men  and  women  were 
lounging  up  and  down  the  road.  You  would  have  thought  it 
was  a fair,  and  3'et  there  was  not  even  a village  at  this  place, 
only  the  inn  and  post-house,  by  which  the  cars  to  Tralee  pass 
thrice  a week. 

The  weather,  instead  of  mending,  on  the  second  day  was 
worse  than  ever.  All  the  view  had  disappeared  now  under  a 
rushing  rain,  of  which  1 never  saw  anything  like  the  violence. 
We  were  visited  by  five  maritime  — na3y  buccaneering-looking 
gentlemen  in  moustaches,  with  fierce  caps  and  jackets,  just 
landed  from  a 3'acht ; and  then  the  car  brought  us  three  English- 
men wet  to  the  skin  and  thirsting  for  whiskey-and- water. 

And  with  these  three  Englishmen  a great  scene  occurred, 
such  as  we  read  of  in  Smollett’s  and  Fielding’s  inns.  One  was 
a fat  old  gentleman  from  Cambridge  — who,  I was  informed, 
was  a Fellow  of  a eollege  in  that  universit3q  but  whom  I 
shrewdly  suspect  * to  be  butler  or  steward  of  the  same.  The 

* The  suspicion  turned  out  to  be  very  correct.  The  gentleman  is  the 

respected  cook  of  C , as  I learned  afterwards  from  a casual  Cambridge 

ruan. 


94 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


3"Ounger  men,  burty,  manl}",  good-humored  fellows  of  seventeen 
stone,  were  the  nephews  of  the  elder  — who,  sa}’'s  one,  “ could 
draw  a cheque  for  his  thousand  pounds.” 

Two-and-twent}^  years  before,  on  landing  at  the  Pigeon- 
House  at  Dublin,  the  old  gentleman  had  been  cheated  by  a car- 
man, and  his  firm  opinion  seemed  to  be  that  all  carmen  — na}q 
all  Irishmen  — were  cheats. 

And  a sad  proof  of  this  depravity  speedil}^  showed  itself : 
for  having  hired  a three-horse  car  at  Killarne}^  which  was  to 
carry  them  to  Bantiy,  the  Englishmen  saw,  with  immense  in- 
dignation, after  the}'  had  drunk  a series  of  glasses  of  whiskey, 
that  the  three-horse  car  had  been  removed,  a one-horse  vehicle 
standing  in  its  stead. 

Their  wrath  no  pen  can  describe.  “ I tell  you  they  are 
all  so!”  shouted  the  elder.  “When  I landed  at  the  Pigeon- 
House  . . . .”  “ Bring  me  a post-chaise  ! ” roars  the  second. 

“ Waiter,  get  some  more  whiskey  1 ” exclaims  the  third.  “ If 
they  don’t  send  us  on  with  three  horses.  I’ll  stop  here  for  a 
week.”  Then  issuing,  with  his  two  young  friends,  into  the 
passage,  to  harangue  the  populace  assembled  there,  the  elder 
Englishman  began  a speech  about  dishonesty,  “d — drogues 
and  thieves,  Pigeon-House  : he  was  a gentleman,  and  wouldn’t 
be  done,  d — n his  eyes  and  everybody’s  eyes.”  Upon  the  af- 
frighted landlord,  who  came  to  interpose,  they  all  fell  with  great 
ferocity:  the  elder  man  swearing,  especially,  that  he  “would 
write  to  Lord  Lansdowme  regarding  his  conduct,  likewise  to 
Lord  Bandon,  also  to  Lord  Bantry  : he  was  a gentleman  ; he’d 
been  cheated  in  the  year  1815,  on  his  first  landing  at  the  Pigeon- 
House  : and,  d — n the  Irish,  they  were  all  alike.”  After  roar- 
ing and  cursing  for  half  an  hour,  a gentleman  at  the  door, 
seeing  the  meek  bearing  of  the  landlord  — who  stood  quite  lost 
and  i)owerless  in  the  whirlwind  of  rage  that  had  been  excited 
about  his  luckless  ears  — said,  “If  men  cursed  and  swore  in 
that  way  in  his  house,  he  would  know  how  to  put  them  out.” 

“ Put  me  out  1 ” says  ore  of  the  young  men,  placing  himself 
before  the  fat  old  blasphemer  his  relative.  “Put  me  out,  my 
fine  fellow  1 ” But  it  was  evident  the  Irishman  did  not  like  his 
customer.  “ Put  me  out  1 ” roars  the  old  gentleman,  from  be- 
hind his  young  protector.  “ my  eyes,  who  are  you^  sir? 

who  are  you,  sir?  1 insist  on  knowing  who  you  are.” 

“ And  who  are  you?  ” asks  the  Irishman. 

“ Sir,  I’m  a gentleman,  and  pay  my  way ! and  as  soon  a^ 
I get  into  Bantry,  I sw^ear  I’ll  w'rite  a letter  to  Lord  Bandon 
Bantrv.  and  complain  of  the  treatment  I have  received  here.” 


THE  IHISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


95 


Now,  as  the  unhappy  landlord  had  not  said  one  single  word, 
and  as,  on  the  contraiy,  to  the  anno3'ance  of  the  whole  house, 
the  stout  old  gentleman  from  Cambridge  had  been  shouting, 
raging,  and  cursing  for  two  hours,  I could  not  help,  like  a great 
ass  as  I was,  coming  forward  and  (thinking  the  landlord  might 
be  a tenant  of  Lord  Bantrv’s)  sav  ing,  “ Well,  sir,  if  you 
write  and  sa\’  the  landlord  has  behaved  ill,  I will  write  to 
say  that  he  has  acted  with  extraordinary  forbearance  and 
civility.” 

O fool ! to  interfere  in  disputes  where  one  set  of  the  dispu- 
tants have  drunk  half  a dozen  glasses  of  whiskey  in  the  middle 
of  the  day  ! No  sooner  had  1 said  this  than  the  other  young 
man  came  and  fell  upon  me,  and  in  the  course  of  a few  minutes 
found  leisure  to  tell  me  “ that  1 was  no  gentleman  ; that  I was 
asliamed  to  give  my  name,  or  say  where  1 lived  ; that  I was 
a liar,  and  didn’t  live  in  London,  and  couldn’t  mention  the 
name  of  a single  respectable  [lerson  there  ; that  he  was  a mer- 
chant and  tradesman,  and  hid  his  (luality  from  no  one:”  and, 
tinallv,  that  though  bigger  tlnTn  himself,  there  was  nothing  he 
would  like  better  than  that  1 should  come  out  on  the  green  and 
stand  to  him  like  a man.” 

This  invitation,  although  repeated  several  times,  I refused 
with  as  much  dignity  as  I could  assume  ; partly  because  I was 
sober  and  cool,  while  the  other  was  furious  and  drunk  ; also 
because  I felt  a strong  suspicion  that  in  about  ten  minutes  the 
man  would  manage  to  give  me  a tremendous  beating,  which  I 
did  not  merit  in  the  least ; thirdly,  because  a A’ictory  over  him 
would  not  have  been  productive  of  the  least  pleasure  to  me  ; 
and  lastly,  because  there  was  something  really  honest  and  gal- 
lant in  the  fellow  coming  out  to  defend  his  old  relative.  Both 
of  the  younger  men  would  have  fought  like  tigers  for  this  dis- 
reputable old  gentleman,  and  desired  no  better  sport.  The  last 
I heard  of  the  three  was  that  they  and  the  driver  made  their 
appearance  before  a magistrate  in  Bantrv  ; and  a prett}'  story 
will  the  old  man  have  to  tell  to  his  club  at  the  Hoop,”  or  the 
“ Ked  Lion,”  of  those  swindling  Irish,  and  the  ill-treatment  he 
met  with  in  their  country. 

As  for  the  landlord,  the  incident  will  be  a blessed  theme  of 
conversation  to  him  for  a long  time  to  come.  I heard  him  dis- 
coursing of  it  in  the  passage  during  the  rest  of  the  day  ; and 
next  morning  when  I opened  my  window  and  saw  with  much 
delight  the  bay  clear  and  bright  as  silver  — except  where  the 
green  hills  were  reflected  in  it,  the  blue  sky  above,  and  the  pur- 
ple mountains  round  about  with  only  a few  clouds  veiling  their 


96 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


peaks  — the  first  thing  I heard  was  the  voice  of  Mr.  Eccles 
repeating  the  story  to  a new  customer. 

I thought  thim  couldn’t  be  gintleinin,”  was  the  appropriate 
remark  of  Mr.  Tom  the  waiter,  ^‘from  the  way  in  which  they 
took  their  whiske}^  — raw  with  cold  wather,  widout  mixing  or  iny 
thing.''  Could  an  Irish  waiter  give  a more  excellent  definition 
of  the  imgcntcel? 

At  nine  o’clock  in  the  morning  of  the  next  day,  the  unlucki 
car  which  had  carried  the  Englishmen  to  Bantry  came  back 
to  Glengariff,  and  as  the  morning  was  very  fine,  I was  glad  to 
take  advantage  of  it,  and  travel  some  five-and-thirty  English 
miles  to  Killarney. 


CHAPTER  X. 

FROM  GLENGARIFF  TO  KILLARNEY. 

The  Irish  car  seems  accommodated  for  any  number  of  per- 
sons : it  appeared  to  be  full  when  we  left  Glengariff,  for  a trav- 
eller from  Bearhaven,  and  the  five  gentlemen  from  the  yacht, 
took  scats  upon  it  with  myself,  and  we  fancied  it  was  inipossi- 
])le  more  than  seven  should  travel  b}'  such  a conveyance ; 
but  the  driver  showed  the  capabilities  of  his  vehicle  presently. 
The  journe}^  from  Glengarift*  to  Kenmare  is  one  of  astonishing 
beauty  ; and  I have  seen  Killarney  since,  and  am  sure  that 
Glengariff  loses  nothing  by  comparison  with  this  most  famous 
of  lakes.  Rock,  wood,  and  sea  stretch  around  the  traveller  — 
a thousand  delightful  pictures  : the  landscape  is  at  first  wild 
without  being  fierce,  immense  woods  and  plantations  enriching 
the  valle3’S — beautiful  streams  to  be  seen  everywhere. 

Here  again  I was  surprised  at  the  great  population  along 
the  road  ; for  one  saw  but  few  cabins,  and  there  is  no  village 
between  Glengariff  and  Kenmare.  But  men  and  women  were 
on  banks  and  in  fields  ; children,  as  usual,  came  trooping  up  to 
the  car ; and  the  jovial  men  of  the  yacht  had  great  conversa- 
tions with  most  of  the  persons  whom  we  met  on  the  road.  A 
merrier  set  of  fellows  it  were  hard  to  meet.  “ Should  }'ou  like 
anything  to  drink,  sir?”  says  one,  commencing  the  acquaint- 
ance. “ We  have  the  best  whiskey  in  the  world,  and  plent}^  of 
l)orter  in  the  basket.”  Therewith  the  jolly  seamen  produced 
a long  l)ottle  of  grog,  which  was  passed  round  from  one  to 


THE  lUL^lI  SKETCH  BOOK. 


97 


Another ; and  tlien  began  singing,  shouting,  laughing,  roaring 
for  the  whole  journey.  ‘‘British  sailors  have  a knack,  pull 
away  — ho,  boys!”  “ Ilurroo,  iny  line  fellow!  does  }’our 
mother  know  you’re  out?”  “Ilurroo,  Tim  llerlih}' ! 3’ou’re 
li  fiake^  Tim  llerliln'.”  One  man  sang  on  the  roof,  one  liurroo  d 
to  the  echo,  another  apostrophized  the  aforesaid  Ilerlih}’  as  he 
passed  grinning  on  a car  ; a third  had  a pocket-handkerchief 
llaunting  from  a pole,  with  which  he  performed  exercises  in  the 
face  of  any  horseman  whom  we  met ; and  great  were  their  yells 
as  the  i)onies  shied  otf  at  the  salutation  and  the  riders  swerved 
in  their  saddles.  In  the  midst  of  this  rattling  chorus  we  went 
along:  gradually  the  countiy  grew  wilder  and  more  desolate, 
and  we  passed  through  a grim  mountain  region,  l)leak  and  bare, 
the  road  winding  round  some  of  the  innumerable  hills,  and  once 
or  twice  b}’  means  of  a tunnel  rushing  boldly  through  theui. 
One  of  these  tunnels,  they  sav,  is  a couple  of  hundred  }'ards 
long ; and  a prettv  howling,  I need  not  sa}y  was  made  through 
that  pipe  of  rock  ly  the  jollv  .yacht’s  crew.  “ AVe  saw  3’ou 
sketching  in  the  blacksmith’s  shed  at  Glengariff,”  sa3’s  one, 
“ and  we  wished  vye  had  you  on  board.  Such  a jolh"  life  we 
led  of  it!  ” — They  roved  about  the  coast,  they  said,  in  their 
vessel ; thev  feasted  off  the  l)est  of  fish,  mutton,  and  whiskey; 
they  had  Gamble’s  turtle-soup  on  board,  and  fun  from  morning 
till  night,  and  vice  versd.  Gradualh'  it  came  out  that  there  w^as 
not,  owing  to  the  tremendous  rains,  a dry  corner  in  their  ship : 
that  they  slung  two  in  a huge  hammock  in  the  cabin,  and  that 
one  of  their  crew  had  been  ill,  and  shirked  off.  AVhat  a w^on- 
derful  thing  pleasure  is  ! To  l)e  wet  all  da3’  and  night ; to  be 
scorched  and  blistered  b3’  the  sun  and  rain  ; to  beat  in  and  out 
of  little  harbors,  and  to  exceed  diurnalH  upon  whiske3’-punch  — 
Taith,  London,  and  an  arm-chair  at  the  club,  are  more  to  the 
tastes  of  some  men. 

After  much  mountain-work  of  ascending  and  descending,  (in 
which  latter  operation,  and  b3^  the  side  of  precipices  that  make 
passing  cockne3^s  rather  squeamish,  the  carman  droye  like 
mad  to  the  whooping  and  screeching  of  the  red-royers,)  we  at 
length  came  to  Kenmare,  of  which  all  that  I know  is  that  it  lies 
prettily  in  a bay  or  arm  of  the  sea ; that  it  is  approached  by  a 
little  hanging-bridge,  wdiich  seems  to  be  a wonder  in  these  parts  ; 
that  it  is  a miserable  little  place  wdien  you  enter  it ; and  that, 
finalhy  a splendid  luncheon  of  all  sorts  of  meat  and  excellent 
cold  salmon  may  sometimes  be  had  for  a shilling  at  the  hotel  of 
the  place.  It  is  a great  yacant  house,  like  the  rest  of  them, 
and  would  frighten  people  in  England ; but  after  a few  days 


98 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


one  grows  used  to  the  Castle  Rackrent  style.  I am  not  sure 
that  there  is  not  a certain  sort  of  comfort  to  be  had  in  these 
rambling  rooms,  and  among  these  bustling,  blundering  waiters, 
whicli  one  does  not  always  meet  with  in  an  orderly  English 
house  of  entertainment. 

After  discussing  the  luncheon,  we  found  the  car  with  fresh 
horses,  beggars,  idlers,  policemen,  &c.,  standing  round  of 
course ; and  now  the  miraculous  vehicle,  which  had  held 
hitherto  seven  with  some  difficulty,  was  called  upon  to  accom- 
modate thirteen. 

A pretty  noise  would  our  three  Englishmen  of  yesterday  — ■ 
na}^,  any  other  Englishmen  for  the  matter  of  that  — have  made, 
if  coolly  called  upon  to  admit  an  extra  part}'  of  four  into  a 
mail-coach  ! The  3'acht’s  crew  did  not  make  a single  objection  ; 
a •couple  clambered  up  on  the  roof,  where  they  managed  to 
locate  themselves  with  wonderful  ingenuity,  perched  upon  hard 
wooden  chests,  or  agreeably  reposing  upon  the  knotted  ropes 
whicli  held  them  together  ; one  of  the  new  passengers  scrambled 
between  the  driver’s  legs,  where  he  held  on  somehow,  and  the 
rest  were  pushed  and  squeezed  astonishingl}'  in  the  car. 

Now  the  fact  must  be  told,  that  five  of  the  new  passengers 
(I  don’t  count  a little  boy  besides)  were  women,  and  very 
prettv,  gay,  frolicksoine,  livel}',  kind-hearted,  innocent  women 
too  ; and  for  the  rest  of  the  journey  there  was  no  end  of  laugh- 
ing and  shouting,  and  singing,  and  hugging,  so  that  the  caravan 
lireseiited  the  appearance  which  is  depicted  in  the  frontispiece 
of  this  work. 

Now  it  may  be  a wonder  to  some  persons,  that  with  such  a 
cargo  the  carriage  did  not  iqiset,  or  some  of  us  did  not  fall  off ; 
to  which  the  answer  is  that  we  did  fall  off.  A veiy  pretty 
woman  fell  off,  and  showed  a pair  of  never-mind-what-colored 
garters,  and  an  interesting  English  traveller  fell  off  too : but 
iieaven  liless  you  ! these  cars  are  made  to  fall  off  from ; and 
considering  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  and  in  the  same 
company,  1 would  rather  fall  off  than  not.  A great  number  of 
polite  aihisions  and  genteel  inquiries  were,  as  may  be  imagined, 
made  by  the  jolly  boat’s  crew.  But  though  the  lady  affected  to 
be  a little  angry  at  first,  she  was  far  too  good-natured  to  be 
angry  long,  and  at  last  fairl}'  burst  out  laughing  with  the  pas- 
sengers. We  did  not  fall  off  again,  but  held  on  very  tight,  and 
just  as  we  were  reaching  Killarne}',  saw  somebody  else  fall  off 
from  another  car.  But  in  this  instance  the  gentieman  had  no 
lad}'  to  tumble  with. 

For  almost  half  the  way  from  Kcnmarc,  this  wild,  beautiful 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


99 


road  commands  views  of  the  famous  lake  and  vast  blue  moun- 
tains about  Killarney.  Turk,  Toinies,  and  Maugertou  were 
clothed  in  })ui-ple,  like  kings  in  mourning;  great  heavy  clouds 
w'ere  gathered  round  their  heads,  parting  awa}’  every  now  and 
then,  and  leaving  their  noble  features  bare.  The  lake  la}'  for 
some  time  underneath  us,  dark  and  blue,  with  dark  mist}'  islands 
in  the  midst.  On  the  right-liand  side  of  the  road  would  be  a 
precipice  covered  with  a thousand  trees,  or  a green  rocky  Hat, 
with  a reedy  mere  in  the  midst,  and  other  mountains  rising  as 
far  as  we  could  see.  I think  of  that  (lial)olieal  tune  in  ^ Der 
Freischutz  ” while  passing  through  this  sort  of  countiy.  Every 
now  and  then,  in  the  midst  of  some  fresh  country  or  inclosed 
trees,  or  at  a turn  of  the  road,  you  lose  the  sight  of  the  great 
big  awful  mountain:  but,  like  the  aforesaid  tune  in  Der 
Freischutz,”  it  is  always  there  close  at  hand.  You  feel  that  it 
keeps  you  comi)any.  And  so  it  was  that  we  rode  by  dark  old 
Mangerton,  then  [)resently  })ast  ]Muckross,  and  then  through 
two  miles  of  avenues  of  lime-trees,  by  numerous  lodges  and 
gentlemen’s  seats,  across  an  old  briclge,  w'here  you  see  the 
iilountains  again  and  the  lake,  until,  by  Lord  Kenmare’s  house, 
a hideous  row  of  houses  informed  us  that  we  were  at  Kil- 
larney. 

Here  my  companion  suddenly  let  go  my  hand,  and  by  a cer- 
tain uneasy  motion  of  the  wmist,  gave  me  notice  to  withdraw 
the  other  too ; and  so  we  rattled  up  to  the  “Kenmare  Arms 
and  so  ended,  not  without  a sigh  on  my  part,  one  of  the  merriest 
six-hour  rides  that  five  yachtmen,  one  cockney,  five  w'omen  and 
a child,  the  carman,  and  a countryman  with  an  alpeen,  ever 
took  in  their  lives. 

As  for  my  fellow-companion,  she  would  hardly  speak  the 
next  day ; but  all  the  five  maritime  men  made  me  vow  and 
promise  that  I would  go  and  see  them  at  Cork,  where  I should 
have  horses  to  ride,  the  fastest  yacht  out  of  the  harbor  to  sail 
in,  and  the  best  of  whiskey,  claret,  and  welcome.  Amen,  and 
may  every  single  person  who  buys  a copy  of  this  book  meet 
with  the  same  deserved  fate. 

The  town  of  Killarney  was  in  a violent  state  of  excitement 
with  a series  of  horse-races,  hurdle-races,  boat-races,  and  stag- 
hunts  by  land  and  w'ater,  which  were  taking  place,  and  attracted 
a vast  crow'd  from  all  parts  of  the  kingdom.  All  tlie  inns  w'ere 
full,  and  lodgings  cost  five  shillings  a day  — nay,  more  in  some 
places  ; for  though  my  landlady,  Mrs.  Macgillicuddy,  charges 
but  that  sum,  a leisurely  old  gentleman,  whom  I never  saw  in 
my  life  before,  made  ray  acquaintance  by  stopping  me  in  the 


100 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


street  yesterday,  and  said  he  paid  a pound  a day  for  his  two 
bedrooms.  The  old  gentleman  is*  eager  for  company  ; and 
indeed,  when  a man  travels  alone,  it  is  wonderful  how  little  he 
cares  to  select  his  societ}^ ; how  indifferent  company  pleases 
him  ; how  a good  fellow  delights  him  : how  sorry  he  is  when 
the  time  for  parting  comes,  and  he  has  to  walk  off  alone,  and 
begin  the  friendship-hunt  over  again. 

The  first  sight  I witnessed  at  Killarney  was  a race-ordinary, 
where,  for  a sum  of  twelve  shillings,  any  man  could  take  his 
share  of  turbot,  salmon,  venison,  and  beef,  with  port,  and  sherry, 
and  whiske3’-punch  at  discretion.  Here  were  the  squires  of  Cork 
and  Kerry,  one  or  two  Englishmen,  wEose  voices  amidst  the 
rich  humming  brogue  round  about  sounded  quite  affected  (not 
that  they  were  so,  but  there  seems  a sort  of  impertinence  in  the 
shrill,  high-pitched  tone  of  the  English  voice  here).  At  the 
head  of  the  table,  near  the  chairman,  sat  some  brilliant  3"oung 
dragoons,  neat,  solemn,  dull,  with  huge  moustaches,  and  boots 
polished  to  a nicet^^ 

And  here  of  course  the  conversation  was  of  the  horse, 
horsey : how  Mr.  This  had  refused  fifteen  hundred  guineas  for 
a horse  wdiich  he  bought  for  a hundred ; how  Bacchus  was  the 
best  horse  in  Ireland  ; wdiich  horses  were  to  run  at  Something 
races ; and  how  tlie  Marquis  of  Waterford  gave  a plate  or  a 
purse.  We  drank  “ the  Queen,”  with  hip!  hip  I hurrah!  the 
“winner  of  the  Kenmare  stakes”  — hurrah!  Presentl}’^  the 
gentleman  next  me  rose  and  made  a speech  : he  had  brought 
a mare  down  and  won  the  stakes  — a hundred  and  seventy 
guineas  — and  I looked  at  him  with  a great  deal  of  respect. 
Other  toasts  ensued,  and  more  talk  about  horses.  Nor  am  I in 
the  least  disposed  to  sneer  at  gentlemen  who  like  sporting  and 
talk  about  it : for  I do  believe  that  the  conversation  of  a dozen 
fox-hunters  is  just  as  clever  as  that  of  a similar  number  of  mer- 
chants, barristers,  or  literary  men.  But  to  this  trade,  as  to  all 
others,  a man  must  be  bred  ; if  he  has  not  learnt  it  thoroughly 
or  in  earl}"  life,  he  wdll  not  readily  become  a proficient  afterwards, 
and  when  therefore  the  subject  is  broached,  had  best  maintain 
a profound  silence. 

A young  Edinburgh  cockney,  with  an  easy  self-confidence 
that  the  reader  ma}"  have  perhaps  remarked  in  others  of  his 
calling  and  nation,  and  who  evidently  knew  as  much  of  sporting 
matters  as  the  individual  who  w-rites  this,  proceeded  neverthe- 
less to  give  the  company  his  opinions,  and  greatlj"  astonished 
them  all ; for  these  simple  people  are  at  first  willing  to  believe 
that  a stranger  is  sure  to  be  a knowing  fellow,  and  did  not  seem 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


101 


inclined  to  be  undeceived  even  by  this  little  pert,  grinning 
Scotchman.  It  was  good  to  hear  him  talk  of  Haddington, 
Musselburgh  — and  heaven  knows  what  strange  outlandish 
places,  as  if  they  were  known  to  all  the  world.  And  here 
would  be  a good  opportunit}'  to  enter  into  a dissertation  upon 
natural  characteristics  : to  show  that  the  bold,  swaggering  Irish- 
man is  reall}'  a modest  fellow,  while  the  cann_y  Scot  is  a most 
brazen  one  ; to  wonder  why  the  inhabitant  of  one  country  is 
ashamed  of  it  — which  is  in  itself  so  fertile  and  beautiful,  and  has 
produced  more  than  its  fair  proportion  of  men  of  genius,  valor, 
and  wit ; whereas  it  never  enters  into  the  head  of  a Scotchman 
to  question  his  own  equalit}^  (and  something  more)  at  all : but 
that  such  discussions  are  quite  unprofitable  ; nav,  that  exactly 
the  contrary  propositions  ma}^  be  argued  to  just  as  much  length. 
Has  the  reader  ever  tried  vvith  a dozen  of  De  Tocqueville’s  slioid 
crisp  philosophic  apophthegms  and  taken  the  converse  of  them  ? 
The  one  or  other  set  of  pro[)Ositions  will  answer  equally  well ; 
and  it  is  the  best  way  to  avoid  all  such.  Let  the  above  jjassage, 
then,  simply  be  umlerstood  to  say,  that  on  a certain  day  the 
writer  met  a vulgar  little  Scotchman  — not  that  all  Scotchmen 
are  vulgar ; — that  this  little  pert  creature  prattled  about  Ins 
country  as  if  he  and  it  were  ornaments  to  the  world  — which 
the  latter  is,  no  doubt;  and  that  one  could  not  but  contrast 
his  liehavior  with  that  of  great  big  stalwart  sim[)le  Irishmen,  who 
asked  your  opinion  of  their  country  with  as  much  modesty  as  if 
you  — because  an  Englishman  — must  be  somebodjg  and  they 
the  dust  of  the  earth. 

Indeed,  this  want  of  self-confidence  at  times  becomes  quite 
painful  to  the  stranger.  If  in  reply  to  their  queries,  you  say 
you  like  the  country,  people  seem  realH  quite  delighted.  Why 
should  the}'?  AVhy  should  a stranger’s  opinion  who  doesn’t 
know  the  country  be  more  valued  than  a native’s  who  does? — 
Suppose  an  Irishman  in  England  were  to  speak  in  praise  or 
abuse  of  the  country,  would  one  be  particularly  [)leased  or  an- 
noyed ? One  would  be  glad  that  the  man  liked  his  trip  ; but  as 
for  his  good  or  bad  opinion  of  the  country,  the  country  stands 
on  its  own  bottom,  superior  to  any  opinion  of  any  man  or 
men. 

I must  beg  pardon  of  the  little  Scotchman  for  reverting  to 
him  (let  it  be  remembered  that  there  were  two  Scotchmen  at 
Killarney,  and  that  I speak  of  the  other  one)  ; but  I have  seen 
no  specimen  of  that  sort  of  manners  in  any  Irishman  since  I 
have  been  in  the  country.  I have  met  more  gentlemen  here 
than  in  any  place  I ever  saw  : gentlemen  of  high  and  low  ranks, 


102 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


that  is  to  say  : men  shrewd  and  delicate  of  perception,  observ- 
ant of  society,  entering  into  the  feelings  of  others,  and  anxious 
to  set  them  at  ease  or  to  gratify  them  ; of  course  exaggerating 
their  professions  of  kindness  and  in  so  far  insincere ; but  the 
veiy  exaggeration  seems  to  be  a proof  of  a kindl3^  nature,  and 
I wish  in  England  we  were  a little  more  complimentary.  In 
Dublin,  a law}'er  left  his  chambers,  and  a literaiy  man  his  books, 
to  walk  the  towm  with  me  — the  town,  which  the}^  must  know 
a great  deal  too  well : for,  pretty  as  it  is,  it  is  but  a small  place 
after  all,  not  like  that  great  bustling,  changing,  struggling  world, 
the  Englishman’s  capital.  Would  a London  man  leave  his  busi- 
ness to  trudge  to  the  Tower  or  the  Park  with  a stranger?  We 
would  ask  him  to  dine  at  the  club,  or  to  eat  whitebait  at  Love- 
grove’s,  and  think  our  duty  done,  neither  caring  for  him,  nor 
professing  to  care  for  him  ; and  we  pride  ourselves  on  our 
honesW  accordingly^  Never  was  honesty^  more  selfish.  And 
so  a vulgar  man  in  England  disdains  to  flatter  his  equals,  and 
chiefly^  displays  his  character  of  snob  by  assuming  as  much  as 
he  can  for  himself,  swaggering  and  showing  off  in  his  coarse, 
dull,  stupid  way^ 

“I  am  a gentleman,  and  pay  my^  ways”  as  the  old  fellow 
said  at  Glengariff'.  I have  not  heard  a sentence  near  so  vulgar 
from  any  man  in  Ireland.  Yes,  by^  the  ways  there  was  another 
Englishman  at  Cork : a man  in  a middling,  not  to  say’  humble, 
situation  of  life.  When  introduced  to  an  Irish  gentleman,  his 
formula  seemed  to  be,  “ I think,  sir,  I have  met  y’ou  somewhere 
before.”  “ I am  sure,  sir,  I have  met  you  before,”  he  said  for 
the  second  time  in  my^  hearing,  to  a gentleman  of  great  note  in 

Ireland.  “ Yes,  I have  met  y’ou  at  Lord  X ’s.”  “ I don’t 

know  my^  Lord  X ,”  replied  the  Irishman.  “ Sir,”  say’s  the 

other,  I shall  have  great  'pleasure  in  introducing  you  to  him^ 
Well,  the  good-natured  simple  Irishman  thought  this  gentleman 
a very’  fine  fellow.  There  was  only  one,  of  some  dozen  who 
spoke  about  him,  that  found  out  snob.  I suppose  the  Spaniards 
lorded  it  over  the  Mexicans  in  this  way’ : their  drummers  pass- 
ing for  generals  among  the  simple  red  men,  their  glass  beads 
for  jewels,  and  their  insolent  bearing  for  heroic  superiority^ 

Leaving,  then,  the  race-ordinary^  (that  little  Scotchman  with 
his  airs  has  carried  us  the  deuce  knows  how  far  out  of  the  way") , 
I came  home  just  as  the  gentlemen  of  the  race  were  beginning 
to  “ mix,”  that  is,  to  forsake  the  wine  for  the  punch.  At  the 
lodgings  I found  my^  five  companions  of  the  morning  with  a 
bottle  of  that  wonderful  whiskey"  of  which  they"  spoke  ; and 
which  they  had  agreed  to  exchange  against  a bundle  of  Livef- 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


103 


pool  cigars  : so  we  discussed  them,  the  whiskey,  and  other  top- 
ics in  common.  Now  there  is  no  need  to  violate  the  sanctity 
of  private  life,  and  report  the  conversation  which  took  place,  the 
songs  which  were  sung,  the  speeches  which  were  made,  and 
the  other  remai'kable  events  of  the  evening.  Siillice  it  to  sa}", 
that  the  English  traveller  gradually  becomes  accustomed  to 
whiskey-punch  (in  moderation  of  course),  and  linds  the  bev- 
erage very  agreeable  at  Killarney ; against  which  I recollect  a 
protest  was  entered  at  Dublin. 

But  after  we  had  talked  of  hunting,  racing,  rcgatting,  and 
all  other  sports,  I came  to  a discovery  which  astonished  me, 
and  for  which  these  honest,  kind  fellows  are  mentioned  publicl}^ 
here.  The  portraits,  or  a sort  of  resemblance  of  four  of  them, 
may  be  seen  in  the  foregoing  drawing  of  the  car.  The  man 
with  the  straw-hat  and  handkerchief  tied  over  it  is  the  captain 
of  an  Indiaman  ; three  others,  with  each  a pair  of  moustaches, 
sported  yacht-costumes,  jackets,  club  anchor-buttons,  and  so 
forth  ; and,  finally,  one  on  the  other  side  of  the  car  (who  cannot 
be  seen  on  account  of  the  portmanteaus,  otherwise  the  likeness 
would  be  perfect,)  was  dressed  with  a coat  and  a liat  in  the 
ordinary  way.  One  with  the  gold  band  and  moustaches  is  a 
gentleman  of  property  ; the  other  three  are  attorneys  every  man 
of  them  ; two  in  large  practice  in  Cork  and  Dublin,  the  other, 
and  owner  of  the  yacht,  under  articles  to  the  attorne}"  of  Cork. 
Now  did  any  Englishman  ever  live  with  three  attorneys  for  a 
whole  day  without  hearing  a single  syllable  of  law  spoken  ? Did 
we  ever  see  in  our  country  attorneys  with  moustaches  ; or,  above 
all,  an  attorney’s  clerk  the  owner  of  a 3'acht  of  thirt}"  tons? 
He  is  a gentleman  of  property  too  — the  heir,  that  is,  to  a good 
estate  ; and  has  had  a yacht  of  his  own,  he  says,  ever  since  he 
was  fourteen  3'ears  old.  Is  there  aii3"  English  boy  of  fourteen 
who  commands  a ship  with  a crew  of  five  men  under  him?  We 
all  agreed  to  have  a boat  for  the  stag-hunt  on  the  lake  next 
day  ; and  I went  to  bed  wondering  at  this  strange  country  more 
than  ever.  An  attorne3^  with  moustaches!  ¥7 hat  would  they 
sa}"  of  him  in  Chancery  Lane  ? 


104  the  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

KILLAKNEY  — STAG-HUNTING  ON  THE  LAKE. 

Mrs.  Macgillicuddy’s  house  is  at  the  corner  of  the  two 
principal  streets  of  Killarney  town,  and  the  drawing-room  win- 
dows command  each  a street.  Before  one  window  is  a dismal, 
1‘ickety  building,  with  a slated  face,  that  looks  like  an  ex- town- 
hall.  There  is  a row  of  arches  to  the  ground-floor,  the  angles 
at  the  base  of  which  seem  to  have  mouldered  or  to  have  been 
kicked  away.  Over  the  centre  arch  is  a picture  with  a flourish- 
ing yellow  inscription  above,  importing  that  it  is  the  meeting- 
place  of  the  Total  Abstinence  Society.  Total  abstinence  is 
represented  by  the  flgnres  of  a gentleman  in  a blue  coat  and 
drab  tights,  with  gilt  garters,  who  is  giving  his  hand  to  a lady ; 
between  them  is  an  escutcheon  surmounted  with  a cross  and 
charged  with  religious  emblems.  Cupids  float  above  the  heads 
and  between  the  legs  of  this  happy  pair,  while  an  exceedingly 
small  tea-table  with  the  requisite  crocker}'  reposes  against  the 
lad3"’s  knee  ; a still,  with  death’s-head  and  blood}"  bones,  filling 
up  the  naked  corner  near  the  gentleman.  A sort  of  market  is 
held  here,  and  the  place  is  swarming  with  blue  cloaks  and 
groups  of  men  talking ; here  and  there  is  a stall  with  coarse 
linens,  crockerv,  n cheese  ; and  crowds  of  egg-  and  milk-women, 
are  squatted  on  the  pavement,  with  their  ragged  customers  or 
gossips  ; and  the  yellow-haired  girl,  on  the  next  page,  with  a 
barrel  containing  nothing  at  all,  has  been  sitting,  as  if  for  her 
portrait,  this  houi-  past. 

Carts,  cars,  jingles,  barouches,  horses  and  vehicles  of  all 
descri})tions  rattle  presently  through  the  streets  : for  the  town 
is  crowded  with  compaii}'  for  the  races  and  other  sports,  and 
all  the  world  is  bent  to  see  the  stag-hunt  on  the  lake.  Where 
the  ladies  of  the  IMacgillicuddy  family  have  slept,  heaven 
knows,  for  their  house  is  full  of  lodgers.  What  voices  }"ou 
hear  ! “ Bring  me  some  hot  wa^u/i,”  says  a genteel,  high-piped 

English  voice.  “ Hwhere’s  me  hot  wather  ? ” roars  a deep-toned 
Hibernian.  See,  over  the  way,  three  ladies  in  ringlets  and 
green  tal)binet  taking  their  “ ta}^  ” preparatoiy  to  setting  out. 
I wonder  wliether  they  heard  the  sentimental  songs  of  the  law- 
marines  last  night?  They  must  have  been  edified  if  they 
did. 


THE  mrsii  sketch  book. 


105 


IVIy  companions  came,  true  to  Hieir  appointment,  and  we 
walked  down  to  the  boats,  l^'ing  at  a couple  of  miles  from  the 
town,  near  the  “ Victoria  Inn,”  a handsome  mansion,  in  pretty 
grounds,  close  to  the  lake,  and  owned  by  the  patriotic  Mr.  Finn. 
A nobleman  offered  Finn  eight  hundred  })ounds  for  the  use  of 
his  house  during  the  races,  and,  to  Finn’s  eternal  honor  be  it 
said,  he  refused  the  mone}',  and  said  he  would  keep  his  house 
for  Ills  friends  andj:)atrons,  the  [)ublic.  Let  the  Cork  Steam- 
Packet  Com[)any  think  of  this  generosity  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Finn,  and  blush  for  shame  : at  the  Cork  Agricultural  Show  they 
raised  their  fares,  and  were  disappointed  in  their  speculation, 
as  they  deseiwed  to  be,  by  indignant  Englishmen  refusing  to 
go  at  all. 

The  morning  had  l)een  bright  enough  ; but  for  fear  of  acci- 
dents we  took  our  mackintoshes,  and  at  about  a mile  from  the 
town  found  it  necessary  to  assume  those  garments  and  wear 
them  for  the  greater  part  of  the  da\\  Passing  by  the  “ Vic- 
toria,” with  its  beautiful  walks,  [>ark,  and  lodge,  we  came  to  a 
little  creek  where  the  boats  were  moored  ; and  there  was  the 
wonderful  lake  before  us,  with  its  mountains,  and  islands,  and 
trees.  Unluckily,  however,  the  mountains  happened  to  be  in- 
visible ; the  islands  looked  like  gra}'  masses  in  tlie  fog,  and  all 
that  we  could  see  for  some  time  was  the  gray  silhouette  of  the 
boat  ahead  of  us,  in  which  a passenger  was  engaged  in  a witt}^ 
conversation  with  some  boat  still  further  in  the  mist. 

Drummiug  and  trumpeting  was  heard  at  a little  distance,  and 
l)i’esently  we  found  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  a fleet  of  boats 
upon  the  rocky  shores  of  the  beautiful  little  Innisfallen. 

Here  we  landed  for  a while,  and  the  weather  clearing  up 
allowed  us  to  see  this  charming  spot : rocks,  shrubs,  and  little 
abrupt  rises  and  falls  of  ground,  covered  with  the  brightest 
emerald  grass  ; a beautiful  little  ruin  of  a Saxon  chapel,  h'ing 
gentle,  delicate,  and  plaintive  on  the  shore  ; some  noble  trees 
round  about  it,  and  beyond,  presently,  the  tower  of  Ross  Castle  : 
island  after  island  appearing  in  the  clearing  sunshine,  and  the 
huge  hills  throwing  their  misty  A^eils  off,  and  wearing  their  noble 
robes  of  purple.  The  boats’  crews  were  grouped  about  the  place, 
and  one  lai-ge  barge  especially  had  landed  some  sixty  people, 
being  the  Temperance  band,  with  its  drums,  trumpets,  and 
wives.  They  were  marshalled  by  a grave  old  gentleman  with  a 
white  waistcoat  and  queue,  a silver  medal  decorating  one  side 
of  his  coat,  and  a brass  heart  reposing  on  the  other  tiap.  The 
horns  performed  some  Irish  airs  prettily  ; and  at  length,  at  the 
instigation  of  a fellow  who  went  swaggering  about  with  a pair 


106 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


of  whirling  drumsticks,  all  formed  together  and  pla}"ed  Garry- 
Owen  — the  active  drum  of  course  most  dreadfully  out  of  time. 

Having  strolled  about  the  island  for  a quarter  of  an  hour,  it 
became  time  to  take  to  the  boats  again,  and  we  were  rowed 
over  to  the  wood  opposite  Sullivan’s  cascade,  where  the  hounds 
liad  been  laid  in  in  the  morning,  and  the  stag  was  expected  to 
take  water.  Fift}'  or  sixt}"  men  are  employed  on  the  mountain 
to  drive  the  stag  lakewards,  should  he  be  inclined  to  break 
away  : and  the  sport  generall}’  ends  by  the  stag  — a wild  one  — 
making  for  the  water  with  the  pack  swimming  afterwards  ; and 
here  he  is  taken  and  disposed  of:  how  1 know  not.  It  is  ratliei* 
a parade  than  a stag-hunt ; but,  with  all  the  boats  around  and 
the  noble  view,  must  be  a fine  thing  to  see. 

ITesentl}",  steering  his  barge,  the  “Erin,”  with  twelve  oars 
and  a green  flag  sweeping  the  water,  came  bj^  the  president  of 
the  sports,  Mr.  John  O’Connell,  a gentleman  who  appears  to 
be  liked  b}^  rich  and  poor  here,  and  b}'  the  latter  especiallj^  is 
adored.  “ Sure  we’d  dhrown  ourselves  for  him,”  one  man  told 
me  ; and  proceeded  to  speak  eagerly  in  his  praise,  and  to  tell 
numberless  acts  of  his  generosity  and  justice.  The  justice  is 
rather  rude  in  this  wild  countiy  sometimes,  and  occasional!}" 
the  judges  not  only  deliver  the  sentence  but  execute  it ; nor 
does  an}"  one  think  of  appealing  to  any  more  regular  jurisdic- 
tion. The  likeness  of  Mr.  O’Connell  to  his  brother  is  very 
striking : one  might  have  declared  it  was  the  Liberator  sitting 
at  the  stern  of  the  boat. 

Some  scores  more  boats  w-ere  there,  darting  up  and  down  in 
the  })retty,  busy  w’aters.  Here  came  a Cambridge  boat ; and 
w'here,  indeed,  will  not  the  gentlemen  of  that  renowned  uni- 
versity be  found?  Yonder  were  the  dandy  dragoons,  stiff, 
silent,  slim,  faultlessly  appointed,  solemnly  puffing  cigars. 
Every  now  and  then  a hound  would  be  heard  in  the  wood, 
whereon  numbers  of  voices,  right  and  left,  w'ould  begin  to  yell 
in  chorus  — “ Hurroo  ! Hoop  ! Yow  — vow  — yow  ! ” in  accents 
the  most  shrill  or  tlie  most  melancholious.  Meanwhile  the 
sun  had  had  enough  of  the  sport,  the  mountains  put  on  their 
veils  again,  the  islands  retreated  into  the  mist,  the  word  went 
through  the  fleet  to  spread  all  umbrellas,  and  ladies  took  shares 
of  mackintoshes  and  disa[)peared  under  the  flaps  of  silk  cloaks. 

The  wood  comes  down  to  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  and 
many  'of  the  crews  thought  fit  to  land  and  seek  this  green 
shelter.  There  you  might  see  how  the  dandium  summd  genus 
licesit  ulmo^  clambei’ing  u[)  thither  to  hide  from  the  rain,  and 
many  “membra”  in  dabbled  russia-ducks  cowering  viridi  sub 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


lu7 


urbuto  ad  aquce  lene  caput.  To  behold  these  moist  dandies  the 
natives  of  the  country  came  eagerly.  Strange,  savage  faces 
might  be  seen  peei’ing  from  out  of  the  trees  : long-haired,  bare- 
legged girls  came  down  the  hill,  some  with  green  ap[)les  and 
very  sickly-looking  i)lums  ; some  with  whiskey  and  goat’s-milk  : 
a ragged  boy  had  a pair  of  stag’s-horiis  to  sell : the  place 
swarmed  with  peo[)le.  We  went  u[)  the  hill  to  see  the  noble 
cascade,  and  when  you  say  that  it  comes  rushing  down  over 
rock  and  through  tangled  woods,  alas  ! one  has  said  all  the 
dictionaiy  can  hel[)  you  to,  and  not  enough  to  distinguish  this 
particular  cataract  from  any  other.  This  seen  and  admired,  we 
came  back  to  the  harbor  where  the  boats  lay,  and  from  which, 
spot  the  reader  might  have  seen  tin;  1‘oregoing  view  of  the  lake 
— that  is,  you  would  see  the  lake,  if  the  mist  would  onlj'  clear 
away.* 

• But  this  for  hours  it  did  not  seem  inclined  to  do.  W^e  rowed 
up  and  down  industriously  for  a period  of  time  which  seemed 
to  me  atrociousl}' long.  The  bugles  of  the  “ Erin  ” had  long 
since  sounded  “ Home,  sweet  home  ! ” and  the  greater  part  of 
the  licet  had  dispersed.  As  for  the  stag-hunt,  all  I saw  of  it 
was  four  dogs  that  appeared  on  the  shore  at  different  intervals, 
and  a huntsman  in  a scarlet  coat,  who  similarly  came  and 
went : once  or  twice  we  were  gratified  by  hearing  the  hounds  ; 
but  at  last  it  was  agreed  tliat  there  was  no  chance  I'or  the  day, 
and  we  rowed  off'  to  Kenmare  Cottage — where,  on  the  lovely 
lawn,  or  in  a cottage  adjoining,  the  gentry  picnic,  and  where, 
with  a handkerchiett'ul  of  })otatoes,  we  made  as  pleasant  a meal 
as  ever  I recollect.  Here  a good  number  of  the  boats  were 
assembled  ; here  3'ou  might  see  cloths  spread  and  dinner  going 
on  ; here  were  those  wonderful  officers,  looking  as  if  they  had 
just  stejiped  from  liand-boxes,  with  — b}’  heavens  ! — not  a shirt- 
collar  disarranged  nor  a boot  dimmed  b}’  the  wet.  An  old 
piper  was  making  a very  feeble  music,  with  a handkerchief 
spread  over  his  face  ; and,  farther  on,  a little  smiling  German 
boy  was  jilaying  an  accordion  and  singing  a ballad  of  Hauff’s. 
I had  a silver  medal  in  my  pocket,  with  Victoria  on  one  side 
and  Britannia  on  the  other,  and  gave  it  him,  for  the  sake  of 
old  times  and  his  round  friendly  face.  Oh,  little  German  boy, 
many  a night  as  you  trudge  lonely  through  this  wild  land,  must 
3'ou  yearn  after  Bruderlein  and  ScJnvesterlein  at  home  — }’onder 
in  stately  Frankfurt  city  that  lies  b}^  silver  Mayn.  I thought 
of  vineyards  and  sunshine,  and  the  greas}^  clock  in  the  theatre, 
and  the  railroad  all  the  wa}^  to  Wiesbaden,  and  the  handsome 

* This  refers  to  an  illustrated  edition  of  the  work. 


108 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Jew  countiy-houses  by  the  Bockenheimer-Tbor  ....  “Come 
along,”  says  the  boatman.  “ All  the  gintlemin  are  waiting  for 
your  honor.”  And  I found  them  finishing  the  potatoes,  and  we 
all  had  a draught  of  water  from  the  lake,  and  so  pulled  to  the 
Middle  or  Turk  Lake  through  the  picturesque  green  rapid  that 
floats  under  Brickeen  Bridge. 

What  is  to  be  said  about  Turk  Lake?  When  there,  we 
agreed  that  it  was  more  beautiful  than  the  large  lake,  of  which 
it  is  not  one  fourth  the  size  ; then,  when  we  came  back,  we  said, 
“ No,  the  large  lake  is  the  most  beautiful.”  And  so,  at  every 
point  we  stopped  at,  we  determined  that  that  particular  spot 
was  the  prettiest  in  the  whole  lake.  The  fact  is  — and  I don’t 
care  to  own  it  — they  are  too  handsome.  As  for  a man  coming 
from  his  desk  in  London  or  Dublin  and  seeing  “ the  whole  lakes 
in  a day,”  he  is  an  ass  for  his  pains  ; a child  doing  sums  in  addi- 
tion might  as  w'ell  read  the  wdiole  multiplication-table,  and  fancy 
he  had  it  by  heart.  We  should  look  at  these  wonderful  things 
leisurel}'  and  thoughtfull}^ ; and  even  then,  blessed  is  he  who 
understands  them.  I wonder  what  impression  the  sight  made 
upon  the  three  tips}^  Englishmen  at  Glengariff?  What  idea  of 
natural  beauty  belongs  to  an  old  fellow  who  says  he  is  “a 
gentleman,  and  pays  his  way?”  What  to.  a joll}^  fox-hunter, 
who  had  rather  see  a good  “screeching”  run  with  the  hounds 
than  the  best  landscape  ever  painted  ? And  yet  the}'  all  come 
hither,  and  go  through  the  business  regularly,  and  would  not 
miss  seeing  eveiy  one  of  the  lakes  and  going  up  every  one  of 
the  hills.  1>3^  which  circumlocution  the  wu'iter  wishes  ingen- 
uously to  announce  that  he  will  not  see  any  more  lakes,  ascend 
any  mountains  or  towers,  visit  any  gaps  of  Dunloe,  or  any  pros- 
})ects  whatever,  except  such  as  nature  shall  fling  in  his  wa}^  in 
the  course  of  a quiet  reason al)le  wmlk. 

In  the  Middle  Lake  we  were  carried  to  an  island  where 
a ceremony  of  goat’s-milk  and  whiske}"  is  performed  b}"  some 
tra^'ellers,  and  where  you  are  carefully  conducted  to  a spot  that 
8ir  Walter  Scott  admired  more  than  all.”  Whether  he  did 
or  not,  we  can  only  say  on  the  autliorit}"  of  the  boatman  ; but 
the  place  itself  w'as  a quiet  nook,  whqi’c  three  wmters  meet,  and 
indeed  of  no  great  picturesqueness  when  compared  with  the 
beauties  around.  But  it  is  of  a gentle,  homel}"  beauty  — not 
like  the  lake,  which  is  as  a princess  dressed  out  in  diamonds 
and  velvet  for  a diawing-room,  and  knowing  herself  to  1k3 
faultless  too.  As  for  Innisfallen,  it  was  just  as  if  she  gave  one 
smiling  peep  into  the  nursery  before  she  w^ent  awmy,  so  quiet, 
innocent,  and  tender  is  that  lovely'  spot ; but,  depend  on  it,  if 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


109 


there  is  a lake  fairy  or  princess,  as  Crofton  Croker  and  other 
historians  assert,  slie  is  of  her  nature  a vain  creature,  proud  of 
her  person,  and  fond  of  the  finest  dresses  to  adorn  it.  May  I 
confess  that  I would  rather,  for  a continuance,  have  a house 
facing  a paddock,  with  a cow  in  it,  than  be  alwa3’s  looking  at 
this  immense,  overpowering  s[)lendor.  You  would  not,  my 
dear  brother  cockne}'  from  Toole}'  Street?  No,  those  brilliant 
e}'es  of  thine  w'cre  never  meant  to  gaze  at  anything  less  bright 
than  the  sun.  Y"our  might}'  spirit  finds  nothing  too  vast  for  its 
compreliension,  spurns  what  is  humble  as  unworthy,  and  only, 
like  Foote’s  bear,  dances  to  “ the  genteelest  of  tunes.” 

The  long  and  short  of  the  matter  is,  that  on  getting  off  the 
lake,  after  seven  hours’  rowing,  I felt  as  much  relieved  as  if  I 
had  been  dining  for  the  same  lengtli  of  time  with  her  Majesty 
the  Queen,  and  went  jumping  home  as  gayly  as  possible  ; but 
those  marine  lawyers  insisted  so  piteously  upon  seeing  Ross 
Castle,  close  to  which  we  were  at  length  landed,  that  I was 
obliged  (in  spite  of  repeated  oaths  to  the  contrary)  to  ascend 
that  tower,  and  take  a bird’s-eye  view  of  tlie  scene.  Thank 
heaven,  I have  neither  tail  nor  w'ings,  and  have  not  the  slight- 
est wish  to  be  a bird  : that  continual  immensity  of  prospect 
which  stretches  beneath  those  little  wings  of  theirs  must  deaden 
their  intellects,  depend  on  it.  Tomkins  and  I are  not  made 
for  the  immense  : we  can  enjoy  a little  at  a time,  and  enjoy 
that  little  very  much  ; or  if  like  birds,  we  are  like  the  ostrich  — 
not  that  we  have  fine  feathers  to  our  backs,  but  because  we 
cannot  fly.  Press  us  too  much,  and  we  become  flurried,  and 
run  off*  and  bury  our  heads  in  the  quiet  bosom  of  dear  mother 
earth,  and  so  get  rid  of  the  din,  and  the  dazzle,  and  the 
shouting. 

Because  we  dined  upon  potatoes,  that  was  no  reason  we  should 
sup  on  buttermilk.  Well,  well!  salmon  is  good,  and  whiskey 
is  good  too. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

KILLARNEY THE  RACES MUCKROSS. 

The  races  were  as  gay  as  races  could  be,  in  spite  of  one  or 
two  untoward  accidents  that  arrived  at  the  close  of  the  day’s 
sport.  Where  all  the  people  came  from  that  thronged  out  of 
the  town  was  a wonder ; where  ail  the  vehicles,  the  cars, 


110 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


barouches  and  shandr3Tlans,  the  carts,  the  horse-  and  donke^r- 
men  could  have  found  stable  and  shelter,  who  can  tell?  Of  all 
these  equipages  and  donke3q)ages  I had  a fine  view  from  Mrs. 
Macgillicudd3^’s  window,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  see  the  happy 
faces  shining  under  the  blue  cloaks  as  the  carts  rattled  by. 

A very  handsome  3’oung  lad3^  — I presume  Miss  MacG-. — 
who  gives  a hand  to  the  drawing-room  and  comes  smiling  in 
with  the  teapot  — Miss  MacG.,  I say,  appeared  to-da3^  in  a 
silk  bonnet  and  stiff  silk  dress,  with  a brooch  and  a black 
mantle,  as  smart  as  an3"  lady  in  the  la^d,  and  looking  as  if  she 
was  accustomed  to  her  dress  too,  which  the  housemaid  on 
banks  of  Thames  does  not.  Indeed,  I have  not  met  a more 
ladylike  young  person  in  Ireland  than  Miss  MacG.  ; and  when 
I saw  her  in  a handsome  car  on  the  course,  I was  quite  proud 
of  a bow\ 

Tramping  thither,  too,  as  hard  as  thc3^  could  w^alk,  and  as 
happ3'  and  smiling  as  possible,  were  Mary  the  coachman’s  wife 
of  the  da3'  before,  and  Johanna  with  the  child,  and  present^ 
the  other  3’oung  lady  : the  man  with  the  stick,  you  may  be 
sure  : he  would  toil  a year  for  that  day’s  pleasure.  The3^ 
all  mad  for  it : people  walk  for  miles  and  miles  round  to  the 
race  ; thc3'  come  without  a penny  in  their  pockets  often,  trust- 
ing to  chance  and  cliarit3',  and  that  sorno  worthy  gentleman 
ma3^  fling  them  a sixpence.  A gentleman  told  me  that  he  saw 
on  the  course  persons  from  his  part  of  the  countiy,  who  must 
have  walked  eighty  miles  for  the  sport. 

For  a mile  and  a half  to  the  racecourse  there  could  be  no 
pleasanter  occupation  than  looking  at  the  happ3^  multitudes 
w'ho  were  tlironging  thither ; and  I am  bound  to  sa3"  that  on 
rich  or  poor  shoulders  I never  saw  so  maiy^  handsome  faces  in 
my  life.  In  tlie  carilages,  among  the  ladies  of  Keriy,  every 
second  woman  was  handsome  ; and  there  is  something  pecu- 
liarl3'  tender  and  pleasing  in  the  looks  of  the  3^oung  female 
peasantiy  that  is  perhaps  even  better  than  beaut3^  Beggars 
had  taken  their  stations  along  the  road  in  no  great  numbers, 
for  I suspect  they  were  most  of  them  on  the  ground,  and  those' 
who  remained  were  consequently  of  the  oldest  and  ugliest.  It 
G a shame  that  such  horrible  figures  are  allowed  to  appear  in 
public  as  some  of  the  loathsome  ones  which  belong  to  these 
unhappy  people.  On  went  the  crowd,  however,  'laughing  and 
as  ga3'  as  possible  ; all  sorts  of  fun  passing  from  car-  to  foot- 
passengers  as  the  prett3'  girls  came  clattering  bv,  and  the 
“boys”  had  a word  for  each.  One  lady,  with  long  flowing 
auburn  hair,  who  w^as  turning  away  her  head  from  sopje  “boys  ” 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Ill 


very  demurely,  I actually  saw,  at  a pause  of  the  cart,  kissed 
by  oue  of  them.  She  gave  the  fellow  a huge  box  on  the  ear 
and  he  roared  out,  “O  murther ! ” and  she  frowned  for  some 
time  as  hard  as  she  could,  whilst  the  ladies  in  the  blue  cloaks 
at  the  back  of  the  car  uttered  a shrill  rebuke  in  Irish.  But  in 
a minute  the  whole  party  was  grinning,  and  the  young  fellow 
who  had  administered  the  salute  may,  for  what  I know,  have 
taken  another  without  the  slap  on  the  face  b}'  way  of  exchange. 

And  here,  lest  the  fair  })ublic  may  have  a bad  opinion  of 
the  personage  who  talks  of  kissing  with  such  awful  levity,  let 
it  be  said  that  with  all  this  laughing,  romping,  kissing,  and  the 
like,  there  are  no  more  innocent  girls  in  the  world  than  the 
Irish  girls  ; and  that  the  women  of  our  squeamish  country  are 
far  more  liable  to  err.  One  has  but  to  walk  through  an  English 
and  Irish  town,  and  see  how  much  superior  is  the  morality 
of  the  latter.  That  great  terror-striker,  the  Confessional,  is 
before  the  Irish  girl,  and  sooner  or  later  her  sins  must  be  told 
there. 

By  this  time  we  are  got  upon  the  course,  wdiich  is  reall}" 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  spots  that  ever  was  seen  : the  lake 
and  mountains  lying  along  two  sides  of  it,  and  of  course  visible 
from  all.  The}'  were  busy  putting  up  the  hurdles  when  we 
arrived  : stiff  bars  and  poles,  four  feet  from  the  ground,  with 
furze-bushes  over  them.  The  grand  stand  was  already  full ; 
along  the  hedges  sat  thousands  of  tlie  people,  sitting  at  their 
ease  doing  nothing,  and  happy  as  kings.  A daguerreotype 
would  have  been  of  great  service  to  have  taken  their  portraits, 
and  I never  saw  a vast  multitude  of  heads  and  attitudes  so 
picturesque  and  lively.  The  sun  lighted  uj)  the  whole  course 
and  the  lakes  with  amazing  brightness,  though  behind  the 
former  lay  a huge  rack  of  the  darkest  clouds,  against  which 
the  cornfields  and  meadows  shone  in  the  brightest  green  and 
gold,  and  a row  of  white  tents  was  quite  dazzling. 

There  was  a brightness  and  intelligence  about  this  immense 
Irish  crowd,  which  I don’t  remember  to  have  seen  in  an  Eng- 
lish one.  The  women  in  their  blue  cloaks,  with  red  smiling 
faces  peering  from  one  end,  and  bare  feet  from  the  other,  had 
seated  themselves  in  all  sorts  of  pretty  attitudes  of  cheerful 
contemplation  ; and  the  men,  who  are  accustomed  to  lie  about, 
were  doing  so  now  with  all  their  might  — sprawling  oh  the 
banks,  with  as  much  ease  and  variety  as  club-room  loungers  on 
their  soft  cushions,— or  squatted  leisurely  among  the  green 
potatoes.  The  sight  of  so  much  happy  laziness  did  one  good 
to  look  on.  Nor  did  the  honest  fellows  seem  to  weary  of  this 


112 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


amusement.  Honrs  passed  on,  and  the  gentlefolks  (judging 
from  our  party)  began  to  grow  somewhat  weaiy ; but  the  finest 
peasantry  in  Europe  never  budged  from  their  posts,  and  con- 
tinued to  indulge  in  greetings,  indolence,  and  conversation. 

When  we  came  to  the  row  of  white  tents,  as  usual  it  did  not 
look  so  brilliant  or  imposing  as  it  appeared  from  a little  dis- 
tance, though  the  scene  around  them  was  animating  enough. 
The  tents  were  long  humble  booths  stretched  on  hoops,  each 
wdth  its  humble  streamer  or  ensign  without,  and  containing,  of 
course,  articles  of  refreshment  within.  But  Father  Mathew 
has  been  busy  among  the  publicans,  and  the  consequence  is 
that  the  poor  fellows  are  now  condemned  for  the  most  part  to 
sell  ‘ ‘ tay  ” in  place  of  whiskey ; for  the  concoction  of  which 
beverage  huge  caldrons  were  smoking,  in  front  of  each  hut- 
door,  in  round  graves  dug  for  the  purpose  and  piled  up  with 
black  smoking  sod. 

Behind  this  camp  were  the  carts  of  the  poor  people,  which 
were  not  allowed  to  penetrate  into  the  quarter  where  the  quality 
cars  stood.  And  a little  w^ay  from  the  huts,  again,  you  might 
see  (for  you  could  scarcely  hear)  certain  pipers  executing  their 
melodies  and  inviting  people  to  dance. 

Anything  more  lugubrious  than  the  drone  of  the  pipe,  or 
the  jig  danced  to  it,  or  the  countenances  of  the  dancers  and 
musicians,  I never  saw\  Round  each  set  of  dancers  the  people 
formed  a ring,  in  the  which  the  figurantes  and  coryphees  went 
through  their  operations.  The  toes  went  in  and  the  toes  went 
out ; then  there  came  certain  mystic  figures  of  hands  across, 
and  so  forth.  I never  saw  less  grace  or  seemingly  less  enjoy- 
ment— no,  not  even  in  a quadrille.  The  people,  however, 
took  a great  interest,  and  it  was  “ Well  done,  Tim  ! ” “ Step 

out,  Miss  Brady  ! ” and  so  forth  during  the  dance. 

Thimble-rig  too  obtained  somewhat,  though  in  a humble  way. 
A ragged  scoundrel  — the  image  of  Hogarth’s  Bad  Apprentice 
— went  bustling  and  shouting  through  the  crowd  with  his  dirty 
tray  and  thimble,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  taken  his  post,  stated 
that  this  was  the  “royal  game  of  thimble”  and  called  upon 
“gintlemin”  to  come  forward.  And  then  a ragged  fellow 
would  be  seen  to  approach,  with  as  innocent  an  air  as  he  could 
assume,  and  the  bystanders  might  remark  that  the  second  ragged 
fellow  almost  alw’a^^s  won.  Nay,  he  was  so  benevolent  in  many 
instances,  as  to  point  out  to  various  people  who  had  a mind  to 
bet,  under  which  thimble  the  pea  actualH  was.  Meanwhile,  the 
first  fellow  was  sure  to  be  looking  awa}^  and  talking  to  some  one 
in  the  crowd  ; but  somehow  it  generally  happened  — and  how 


THE  miSli  SKETCH  BOOK. 


113 


of  course  I can’t  tell  — that  aii}*  man  who  listened  to  the  advice 
of  rascal  No.  2,  lost  his  mone3\  I believe  it  is  so  even  in  Eng- 
land. 

Then  3'ou  would  see  gentlemen  with  halfpenny  roulette- 
tables,  and,  again,  here  were  a pair  who  came  forward  disinter- 
estedly with  a table  and  a pack  of  cards,  and  began  playing 
against  each  other  for  ten  shillings  a game,  l)etting  crowns  as 
freely  as  possible. 

Gambling,  however,  must  haA^e  been  fatal  to  both  of  these 
gentlemen,  else  might  not  one  have  supposed  that,  if  they  were 
in  the  habit  of  winning  much,  they  would  have  treated  them- 
selves to  better  clothes?  This,  however,  is  the  way  with  all 
gamblers,  as  the  reader  has  no  doubt  remarked  : for,  look  at  a 
game  of  loo  or  vinxjt-et-ini  played  in  a friendly  way,  and  where 
you,  and  three  or  four  others,  have  certainl}"  lost  three  or  four 
pounds,  — well,  ask  at  the  end  of  the  game  who  has  Avon,  and 
you  iuA'ariabl}^  find  that  noliod}'  has.  Hopkins  has  onl}'  cov- 
ered himself;  Snooks  has  neither  lost  nor  won  ; Smith  has  won 
four  shillings  ; and  so  on.  Who  gets  the  money?  The  devil 
gets  it,  I dare  say  ; and  so,  no  doubt,  he  has  laid  hold  of  the 
money  of  yonder  gentleman  in  the  handsome  great-coat. 

But,  to  the  shame  of  the  stewards,  be  it  spoken,  they  are  ex- 
tremel}'  aAxu’se  to  this  kind  of  sport ; and  presently  comes  up 
one,  a stout  old  gentleman  on  a ba}’  horse,  Avielding  a huge 
hunting-whip,  at  the  sight  of  which  all  tly,  amateurs,  idlers,  pro- 
fessional men,  and  all.  He  is  a rude  customer  to  deal  Avith, 
that  gentleman  Avith  tlie  whip  : just  now  he  was  clearing  the 
course,  and  cleared  it  Avith  such  a A^engeance,  that  a whole 
troop  on  a hedge  retreated  backwards  into  a ditch  opposite, 
where  was  rare  kicking,  and  spraAvling,  and  disarrangement 
of  petticoats,  and  cries  of  O murther  ! ” “ Mother  of  God  ! ” 
“I’m  kilt!”  and  so  on.  But  as  soon  as  the  horsewhip  was 
gone,  the  people  clambered  out  of  their  ditch  again,  and  were 
as  thick  as  ever  on  the  bank. 

The  last  instance  of  the  exercise  of  the  whip  shall  be  this. 
A groom  rode  insolently  after  a gentleman,  calling  him  names, 
and  inviting  him  to  fight.  This  the  great  flagellator  hearing, 
rode  up  to  the  groom,  lifted  him  gracefully  off  his  horse  into 
the  air,  and  on  to  the  ground,  and  Avhen  there  administered 
to  him  a severe  and  merited  fustigation  ; after  which  he  told 
the  course-keepers  to  drive  the  fellow  off  the  course,  and  en- 
joined the  latter  not  to  appear  again  at  his  peril. 

As  for  the  races  themseNes,  I won’t  pretend  to  say  that  they 
were  better  or  worse  than  other  such  amusements  ,*  or  to  quarrel 


114 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


with  gentlemen  who  choose  to  risk  their  lives  in  manly  exercise. 
In  the  first  race  there  was  a fall : one  of  the  gentlemen  was 
carried  off  the  ground,  and  it  was  said  he  was  dead.  In  the 
second  race,  a horse  and  man  went  over  and  over  each  other, 
and  the  fine  3’onng  man  (we  had  seen  him  five  minutes  before, 
full  of  life  and  triumph,  clearing  the  hurdles  on  his  gra^’  horse, 
at  the  head  of  the  race)  : — in  the  second  heat  of  the  second 
race  the  poor  fellow  missed  his  leap,  was  carried  awaj^  stunned 
and  dying,  and  the  ba}'  horse  w^on. 

I was  standing,  during  the  first  heat  of  this  race,  (this  is  the 
second  man  the  gra}^  has  killed  — they  ought  to  call  him  the 
Pale  Horse,)  b}'  half  a dozen  3’oung  girls  from  the  gentleman’s 
village,  and  hundreds  more  of  them  were  there,  anxious  for  the 
honor  of  their  village,  the  young  squire,  and  the  gra3'  horse. 
Oh,  how  thc3'  hurrah’d  as  he  rode  ahead!  1 saw  these  girls  — 
the3"  might  be  fourteen  years  old  — after  the  catastrophe. 
“ Well,”  says  I,  “ tliis  is  a sad  end  to  the  race.”  ‘‘  And  is  it 
the  pink  jacket  or  the  blue  iias  won  this  time?'’  sa3^s  one  of  the 

girls.  It  was  poor  IMr.  C ’s  onl3^  epitaph  : and  wasn’t  it  a 

sporting  answer?  That  girl  ought  to  be  a hurdle-racer’s  wife  ; 
and  I would  like,  for  ni3^  part,  to  bestow  her  upon  the  groom 
who  won  the  race. 

I don’t  care  to  confess  that  the  accident  to  the  poor  3'oung 
gentleman  so  thoroughlN'  disgusted  my  feeling  as  a man  and  a 
coekne3’^,  that  I turned  off  the  racecourse  short,  and  hired  a 
horse  for  sixi)cnee  to  carry  me  back  to  Miss  Maegillicudd3x  In 
the  evening  at  the  inn,  (let  no  man  who  values  comfort  go  to  an 
Irish  inn  in  race-time,)  a blind  old  piper,  with  silveiy  hair  and 
of  a most  respectable,  bard-like  appearance,  played  a great  deal 
too  much  for  us  after  dinner.  He  pla3’ed  veiy  well,  and  with 
veiy  much  feeling,  ornamenting  the  airs  with  nourishes  and  vari- 
ations that  were  very  })rett3’  indeed,  and  his  pipe  was  Iw  far  the 
most  melodious  I have  heard  ; but  honest  truth  compels  me  to 
say,  that  the  bad  pipes  are  execrable,  and  the  good  inferior  to 
a clarionet. 

Next  da3’,  instead  of  going  back  to  the  racecourse,  a car 
drove  me  out  to  Muckross,  where,  in  Mr.  Herbert’s  beautiful 
grounds,  lies  the  prettiest  little  bijou  of  a ruined  abbe3"  ever  seen 
— a little  chapel  with  a little  chancel,  a little  cloister,  a little 
dormitoiy,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  cloister  a wonderful  huge 
3’ew-tree  which  darkens  the  whole  place.  The  abbc3^  is  famous 
in  book  and  legend  ; nor  could  twm  young  lovers,  or  artists  in 
search  of  the  picturesque,  or  picnic-parties  with  the  cold  chicken 
and  champagne  in  the  distance,  find  a more  charming  place  to 


THE  ilUSll  SKETCH  BOOK. 


115 


while  fiway  a summer’s  day  than  in  the  })ark  of  Mr.  Herbert. 
But  depend  on  it,  for  show-places,  and  the  due  enjoyment  oi" 
scenery,  that  distance  of  cold  chickens  and  champagne  is  tno 
most  pleasing  perspective  one  can  have.  I would  have  sacri- 
liced  a mountain  or  two  for  the  above,  and  would  have  pitched 
JMangerton  into  the  lake  for  the  sake  of  a friend  with  whom  to 
enjoy  the  rest  of  the  landscape. 

'The  walk  through  IMr.  Herbert’s  demesne  carries  3^011,  througii 
all  sorts  of  beaulil'ul  avenues,  b}'  a line  house  which  he  is  build- 
ing in  the  Elizabethan  style,  and  from  which,  as  from  the  whole 
road,  you  command  the  most  wonderful  rich  views  of  the  lake. 
The  shore  breaks  into  little  bays,  which  the  water  washes  ; here 
and  there  are  picturesque  gra^'  rocks  to  meet  it,  the  bright  grass 
as  often,  or  the  shrubs  of  every  kind  which  bathe  their  roots  in 
the  lake.  It  was  August,  and  the  men  before  Turk  Cottage 
were  cutting  a second  croj)  of  clover,  as  fine,  seemingly,  as  a 
first  crop  elsewhere  : a short  walk  from  it  brought  us  to  a neat 
lodge  whence  issued  a keeper  with  a ke}’,  quite  willing,  for  the 
consideration  of  sixpence,  to  conduct  us  to  Turk  Waterfall. 

Evei’greens  and  other  trees  in  their  bi  ightest  livery  ; blue  sky  ; 
roaring  water,  here  black,  and  yonder  foaming  of  a dazzling 
white  ; rocks  shining  in  the  dark  places,  or  frowning  black 
against  the  light,  all  the  leaves  and  branches  kee[)ing  up  a per- 
petual waving  and  dancing  round  about  the  cascade ; what  is' 
the  use  of  putting  down  all  this?  A man  might  describe  the 
cataract  of  the  Serpentine  in  exactly  the  same  terms,  and  the 
reader  be  no  wiser.  Sulfice  it  to  sa^q  that  the  Turk  cascade  is 
even  handsomer  than  the  before-mentioned  waterfall  of  O’Selli" 
van,  and  that  a man  may'  pass  half  an  hour  there,  and  look,  and 
listen,  and  muse,  and  not  even  feel  the  want  of  a companion,  or 
so  much  as  think  of  the  iced  champagne.  There  is  just  enough 
of  savageness  in  the  Turk  cascade  to  make  i\\Q  piquante. 
It  is  not,  at  this  season  at  least,  b}'  an}"  means  fierce,  only  wild  ; 
nor  was  the  scene  peopled  b}'  any  of  the  rude,  red-slianked 
figures  that  clustered  al)out  the  trees  of  O’Sullivan’s  waterfall, 
— savages  won’t  pa}'  sixpence  for  the  prettiest  waterfall  ever 
seen  — so  that  this  only  was  for  the  best  of  company. 

The  road  hence  to  Killarney  carries  one  through  Muckross 
village,  a pretty  cluster  of  houses,  where  the  sketcher  will  find 
abundant  materials  for  exercising  his  art  and  puzzling  his  hand. 
There  are  not  only  noble  trees,  but  a green  common  and  an  old 
water-gate  to  a river,  lined  on  either  side  by  beds  of  rushes  and 
discharging  itself  beneath  an  old  mill-wheel.  But  the  old  mill- 
wheel was  perfectly  idle,  like  most  men  and  mill-wheels  in  'lii^ 


116 


THE  IKISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


country  : by  it  is  a ruinous  house,  and  a fine  garden  of  stinging- 
nettles  ; opposite  it,  on  the  common,  is  another  ruinous  house, 
'with  another  garden  containing  the  same  plant ; and  far  away 
are  sharp  ridges  of  purple  hills,  which  make  as  pretty  a 
landscape  as  the  e}^e  can  see.  I don’t  know  how  it  is,  but 
throughout  the  country  the  men  and  the  landscapes  seem  to  be 
the  same,  and  one  and  the  other  seem  ragged,  ruined,  and 
cheerful. 

Having  been  employed  all  day  (making  some  abominable 
attempts  at  landscape-drawing,  whicli  shall  not  be  exhibited 
here),  it  became  requisite,  as  the  evening  approached,  to  re- 
cruit an  exhausted  cockne}^  stomach  — which,  after  a very 
moderate  portion  of  exercise,  begins  to  sigh  for  beefsteaks  in 
the  most  peremptor}^  manner.  Hard  by  is  a fine  hotel  with  a 
fine  sign  stretching  along  the  road  for  the  sj^ace  of  a dozen 
windows  at  least,  and  looking  inviting  enough.  All  the  doors 
were  open,  and  I walked  into  a great  number  of  rooms,  but  the 
only  person  I saw  was  a woman  with  trinkets  of  arbutus,  who 
offered  me,  b}"  way  of  refreshment,  a walking-stick  or  a card- 
rack.  I suppose  everybody  was  at  the  races ; and  an  evilly- 
disposed  person  might  have  laid  main-hasse  upon  the  great-coats 
wlucii  were  there,  and  the  silver  spoons,  if  b}’  any  miracle  such 
things  were  kept  — but  Britannia-metal  is  the  favorite  compo- 
sition in  Ireland  ; or  else  iron  by  itself ; or  else  iron  that  has 
been  silvered  over,  but  that  takes  good  care  to  peep  out  at  all 
the  corners  of  the  forks : and  blessed  is  the  traveller  who  has 
not  otlier  observations  to  make  regarding  his  fork,  besides  the 
mere  abrasion  of  the  silver. 

This  was  the  last  day’s  race,  and  on  the  next  morning 
(Sunday),  all  the  thousands  who  had  crowded  to  the  race 
seemed  trooping  to  the  chapels,  and  the  streets  were  blue  with 
cloaks.  Walking  in  to  pra}’ers,  and  without  his  board,  came 
my  young  friend  of  tlie  thimble-rig,  and  presently"  after  saun- 
tered in  tlie  fellow  with  the  long  coat,  who  had  played  at  cards 
for  sovereigns.  I should  like  to  hear  the  confession  of  himself 
and  friend  the  next  time  they  communicate  with  his  reverence. 

The  extent  of  this  town  is  very  curious,  and  I should  imagine 
its  population  to  be  much  greater  than  five  thousand,  which 
was  the  number,  according  to  Miss  Macgillicudd3\  Along  the 
three  main  streets  are  numerous  arches,  down  eveiy  one  of 
which  runs  an  alley,  intersected  by  other  alle3^s,  and  swarming 
with  people.  A stream  or  gutter  runs  commonl3"  down  these 
alleys,  in  which  the  pigs  and  children  are  seen  paddling  about. 
The  men  and  women  loll  at  their  doors  or  windows,  to  enjoy 


The  Market  at  Killarney. 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


117 


the  detestable  prospect.  I saw  two  pigs  under  a fresh-made 
deal  staircase  in  one  of  the  main  streets  near  the  Bridewell : 
two  very  w^ell-dressed  girls,  with  their  hair  in  ringlets,  were 
looking  out  of  the  parlor-window  : almost  all  the  glass  in  the 
upper  rooms  was  of  course  smashed,  the  windows  patched  here 
and  there  (if  the  people  were  careful),  the  wood-work  of  the 
door  loose,  the  whitewash  peeling  off,  — and  the  house  evidently’ 
not  two  years  old. 

By  the  Bridewell  is  a bus}^  potato-market,  picturesque  to 
the  sketcher,  if  not  very  respectable  to  the  merchant:  here 
were  the  countiy  carts  and  tlic  country  cloaks,  and  the  shrill 
beggarly  bargains  going  on  — a world  of  shrieking  and  gesticu- 
lating, and  talk,  about  a pennyworth  of  potatoes. 

All  round  the  town  miserable  streets  of  cabins  are  stretched. 
You  see  people  lolling  at  each  door,  women  staring  and  comb- 
ing their  hair,  men  with  their  little  pipes,  children  whose  rags 
hang  on  b}^  a miracle,  idling  in  a gutter.  Are  we  to  set  all  this 
down  to  absenteeism,  and  pit}'  poor  injured  Ireland?  Is  the 
landlord’s  absence  the  reason  why  the  house  is  filthy,  and 
Biddy  lolls  in  the  porch  all  day?  Upon  my  word,  I have  heard 
people  talk  as  if,  when  Pat’s  thatch  was  blown  ofl‘,  the  land- 
lord ought  to  go  fetch  the  straw  and  the  ladder,  and  mend  it 
himself.  People  need  not  be  dirty  if  they  are  ever  so  idle ; if 
they  are  ever  so  poor,  pigs  and  men  need  not  live  together. 
Half  an  hour’s  work,  and  digging  a trench,  might  remove  that 
lilthy  dunghill  from  that  filthy  window.  The  smoke  might  as 
well  come  out  of  the  chinmc}'  as  out  of  the  door.  Why  should 
not  Tim  do  that,  instead  of  walking  a hundred  and  sixty  miles 
to  a race?  The  priests  might  do  much  more  to  effect  these 
reforms  than  even  the  landlords  themselves : and  I hope  now 
that  the  excellent  Father  Mathew'  has  succeeded  in  arraying  his 
clerg}'  to  work  with  him  in  the  abolition  of  drunkenness,  they 
will  attack  the  monster  Dirt,  with  the  same  good-will,  and 
surely  with  the  same  success. 


118 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

TRALEE LISTOWEL TARBERT. 

I 

I MADE  the  jouriie}'  to  Tralee  next  da}',  upon  one  of  the 
famous  Bianconi  cars  — very  comfortable  conveyances  too,  if 
the  booking-officers  would  only  receive  as  many  persons  as  the 
car  would  hold,  and  not  have  too  many  on  the  seats.  For  half 
an  hour  before  the  car  left  Killarney,  I observed  people  had 
taken  their  seats : and,  let  all  travellers  be  cautious  to  do  like- 
wise, lest,  although  they  have  booked  their  places,  they  be 
requested  to  mount  on  the  roof,  and  accommodate  themselves 
on  a band-box,  or  a pleasant  deal  trunk  with  a knotted  rope, 
to  prevent  it  from  being  slippery,  while  the  corner  of  another 
box  jolts  against  your  ribs  for  the  journey.  I had  put  my  coat 
on  a place,  and  was  stepping  to  it,  when  a lovely  lady  with 
great  activity  jumped  up  and  pushed  the  coat  on  the  roof,  and 
not  only  occupied  my  seat,  but  insisted  that  her  husband  should 
have  the  next  one  to  her.  So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
make  a huge  shouting  wdth  the  book-keeper  and  call  instantly 
for  the  taking  down  of  my  luggage,  and  vow  my  great  gods 
that  I would  take  a post-chaise  and  make  the  office  pay : on 
which,  I am  ashamed  to  say,  some  other  person  was  made  to 
give  up  a decently  comfortable  seat  on  the  roof,  which  I occu- 
pied, the  former  occupant  hanging  on  — heaven  knows  where 
or  how. 

A company  of  young  squires  were  on  the  coach,  and  they 
talked  of  horse-racing  and  hunting  punctually  for  three  hours, 
during  which  time  I do  believe  they  did  not  utter  one  single 
word  upon  any  other  subject.  What  a wonderful  faculty  it  is,! 
The  writers  of  Natural  Histories,  in  describing  the  noble  horse, 
should  say  he  is  made  not  only  to  run,  to  carry  burdens,  &c., 
but  to  be  talked  about.  What  would  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
dashing  young  fellows  do  with  their  tongues,  if  they  had  not 
this  blessed  subject  to  discourse  on? 

As  far  as  the  country  went,  there  was  here,  to  be  sure,  not 
much  to  be  said.  You  pass  through  a sad-looking,  bare,  un- 
dulating country,  with  few  trees,  and  poor  stone-hedges,  and 
poorer  crops  ; nor  have  1 yet  taken  in  Ireland  so  dull  a ride. 
About  half-way  between  Tralee  and  Killarney  is  a wretched 
town,  where  horses  are  changed,  and  where  I saw  more  hideous 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


119 


beggary  than  anywhere  else,  1 tliink.  Anti  I was  glad  to  get 
over  this  gloomy  tract  of  countiy,  and  enter  the  capital  of 
Kerry. 

It  has  a handsome  description  in  the  guide-books  ; but,  if  I 
mistake  not,  the  English  traveller  will  find  a stay  of  a couple 
of  hours  in  the  town  quite  sufficient  to  gratify  his  curiosity 
with  respect  to  the  place.  There  seems  to  be  a great  deal  of 
poor  business  going  on  ; the  town  thronged  wtth  people  as 
usual ; the  shops  large  and  not  too  splendid.  There  are  two 
or  three  rows  of  respectable  houses,  and  a mall,  and  the  towns- 
people have  the  further  privilege  of  walking  in  the  neighboring 
grounds  of  a handsome  park,  which  the  proprietor  has  liberally 
given  to  their  use.  Tralee  has  a newsi)aper,  and  boasts  of  a 
couple  of  clubs  : the  one  I saw  was  a big  white  house,  no  win- 
dows broken,  and  looking  comfortable.  But  the  most  curious 
sight  of  the  town  was  the  chapel,  with  the  festival  held  there. 
It  was  the  feast  of  the  Assum[)tion  of  the  Virgin,  (let  those 
who  are  acquainted  with  the  calendar  and  the  facts  it  com- 
memorates say  what  the  feast  was,  and  when  it  falls,)  and  all 
the  country  seemed  to  be  present  on  the  occasion  : the  chapel 
and  the  large  court  leading  to  it  were  thronged  with  worshippers, 
such  as  one  never  sees  in  our  countiy,  where  devotion  is  by  no 
means  so  crowded  as  here.  Here,  in  the  court-3'ard,  there 
were  thousands  of  them  on  their  knees,  rosaiy  in  hand,  for  the 
most  part  praying,  and  mumbling,  and  casting  a wistful  look 
round  as  the  strangers  passed.  In  a corner  was  an  old  man 
groaning  in  the  agonies  of  death  or  colic,  and  a woman  got  off 
her  knees  to  ask  us  for  chaifit}'  for  the  unhapp}-  old  fellow.  In 
the  chapel  the  crowd  w'as  enormous  : the  priest  and  his  people 
were  kneeling,  and  bowing,  and  humming,  and  chanting,  and 
censer-rattling  ; the  ghostly  crew  being  attended  b}^  a fellow 
that  I don’t  remember  to  have  seen  in  Continental  churches, 
a sort  of  Catholic  clerk,  a black  shadow  to  the  parson,  bowing 
his  head  when  his  reverence  bowed,  kneeling  when  he  knelt, 
only  three  steps  lower. 

But  we  who  wonder  at  copes  and  candlesticks,  see  nothing 
strange  in  surplices  and  beadles.  A Turk,  doubtless,  would 
sneer  equal!}"  at  each,  and  have  you  to  understand  that  the 
only  reasonable  ceremonial  was  that  which  took  place  at  his 
mosque. 

Whether  right  or  wrong  in  point  of  ceremony,  it  was  evident 
the  heart  of  devotion  was  there : the  immense  dense  crowd 
moaned  and  swayed,  and  you  heard  a hum  of  all  sorts  of  wdld 
ejaculatious,  each  man  praying  seemingly  for  himself,  while  tlw 


120 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


service  went  on  at  the  altar.  The  altar  candles  flickered  red  in 
the  dark,  steaming  place,  and  every  now  and  then  from  the 
choir  you  heard  a sweet  female  voice  chanting  Mozart’s  music, 
which  swept  over  the  heads  of  the  people  a great  deal  more 
pure  and  delicious  than  the  best  incense  that  ever  smoked  out 
of  pot. 

On  the  chapel-floor,  just  at  the  entr}^,  lay  several  people 
moaning,  and  tossing,  and  telling  their  beads.  Behind  the  old 
woman  was  a font  of  holy  water,  up  to  which  little  children 
were  clambering ; and  in  the  chapel-yard  were  several  old 
women,  with  tin  cans  full  of  the  same  sacred  fluid,  with  which 
the  people,  as  they  entered,  aspersed  themselves  with  all  their 
might,  flicking  a great  quantity  into  their  faces,  and  making 
a curtsy  and  a pra^^er  at  the  same  time.  “ A pretty  pra}'er, 
truly!”  saj^s  the  parson’s  wife.  “What  sad,  sad,  benighted 
superstition  ! ” says  the  Independent  minister’s  lady.  Ah  1 
ladies,  great  as  your  intelligence  is,  yet  think,  when  compared 
with  the  Supreme  One,  what  a little  difference  there  is  after  all 
between  your  husbands’  very  best  extempore  oration  and  the 
poor  Popish  creatures’  1 One  is  just  as  far  off  Infinite  Wisdom 
as  the  other : and  so  let  us  read  the  story  of  the  woman  and  j 
her  pot  of  ointment,  that  most  noble  and  charming  of  histories  ; 
which  equalizes  the  great  and  the  small,  the  wise  and  the  poor 
in  spirit,  and  shows  that  their  merit  before  heaven  lies  in  doing 
their  best. 

When  I came  out  of  the  chapel,  the  old  fellow  on  the  point 
of  death  was  still  howling  and  groaning  in  so  vehement  a 
manner,  that  I heartily  trust  he  was  an  impostor,  and  that  on 
receiving  a sixpence  he  went  home  tolerably  comfortable,  hav- 
ing secured  a maintenance  for  that  day.  But  it  will  be  long 
before  I can  forget  the  strange,  wild  scene,  so  entirely  different 
was  it  from  the  decent  and  comfortable  observances  of  our  own 
church. 

Three  cars  set  off  together  from  Tralee  to  Tarbert : three  cars 
full  to  overflowing.  The  vehicle  before  us  contained  nineteen 
persons,  half  a dozen  being  placed  in  the  receptacle  called  the 
well,  and  one  clinging  on  as  if  by  a miracle  at  the  bar  behind. 
What  can  people  want  at  Tarbert  ? I wondered ; or  anywhere 
else,  indeed,  that  they  rush  about  from  one  town  to  another  in 
this  inconceivable  way  ? All  the  cars  in  all  the  towns  seem  to 
be  thronged  : people  are  perpetually  hurrying  from  one  dismal 
tumble-down  town  to  another;  and  yet  no  business  is  done 
an}^where  that  I can  see.  The  chief  part  of  the  contents  of 
our  three  cars  was  discharged  at  Listowel,  to  which,  for 


Chapel  at  Tralee. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


121 


the  greater  part  of  the  journe}^,  the  road  was  neither  more 
cheerful  nor  picturesque  than  that  from  Killarney  to  Tralee. 
As,  however,  3011  reach  Listowel,  the  couiitiy  becomes  better 
cultivated,  the  gentlemen’s  seats  are  more  frequent,  and  the 
town  itself,  as  seen  from  a little  distance,  lies  very  prettily  on 
a river,  which  is  crossed  by  a handsome  bridge,  which  leads  to 
a neat-looking  square,  which  contains  a smartish  church,  which 
is  Hanked  ly  a big  Roman  Catholic  chapel,  &c.  An  old  castle, 
gray  and  iv3’-covcred,  stands  hard  by.  It  was  one  of  the 
strongholds  of  the  Lords  of  Kerry,  whose  buiying-place  (ac- 
cording to  the  information  of  the  coachman)  is  seen  at  about  a 
league  from  the  town. 

But  pretty  as  Listowel  is  from  a distance,  it  has,  on  a more 
intimate  acquaintance,  b3"  no  means  the  prosperous  appearance 
which  a first  glance  gives  it.  The  place  seemed  like  a scene 
at  a countiy  theatre,  once  smartly  painted  1)3^  the  artist ; but 
the  paint  has  cracked  in  many  places,  the  lines  are  worn  away, 
and  the  wdiole  piece  only  looks  more  sliabb3’  for  the  flaunting 
strokes  of  the  brush  which  remain.  And  here,  of  course,  came 
the  usual  crowd  of  idlers  round  the  car : the  epileptic  idiot 
holding  piteously  out  his  empty  tin  snuff-box  ; the  brutal  idiot, 
in  an  old  soldier’s  coat,  proftering  his  money-box  and  grinning 
and  clattering  the  single  halfpenny  it  contained  ; the  old  man 
with  no  eyelids,  calling  upon  you  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  ; the 
woman  with  a child  at  her  hideous,  wrinkled  breast ; the  chiL 
dren  without  number.  As  for  trade,  there  seemed  to  be  none  : 
a great  Jeremy- Diddier  kind  of  hotel  stood  hard  by,  swagger- 
ing and  out-at-elbows,  and  six  pretty  girls  were  smiling  out  of 
a beggarl3'  straw-bonnet  shop,  dressed  as  smartly  as  any  gen- 
tleman’s daughters  of  good  estate.  It  was  good,  among  the 
crowd  of  bustling,  shrieking  fellows,  who  were  jawing  ” vastly 
and  doing  nothing,  to  see  how  an  English  bagman,  with  scarce 
an3’  words,  laid  hold  of  an  ostler,  carried  him  off  vi  et  armis  in 
the  midst  of  a speech,  in  which  the  latter  was  going  to  explain 
his  immense  activity  and  desire  to  serve,  pushed  him  into  a 
stable,  from  which  he  issued  in  a twinkling,  leading  the  ostler 
and  a horse,  and  had  his  bag  on  the  car  and  his  horse  off  in 
about  two  minutes  of  time,  while  the  natives  were  still  shouting 
round  about  other  passengers’  portmanteaus. 

Some  time  afterwards,  away  we  rattled  on  our  own  journey 
to  Tarbert,  having  a postilion  on  the  leader,  and  receiving,  I 
must  sa3%  some  graceful  bows  from  the  young  bonnet-maker- 
esses.  But  of  all  the  roads  over  which  human  bones  were  ever 
jolted,  the  first  part  of  ^his  from  Listowel  to  Tarbert  deservei^ 


122 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


the  palm.  It  shook  us  all  into  headaches  ; it  shook  some  nails 
out  of  the  side  of  a box  I had ; it  shook  all  the  cords  loose 
ill  a twinkling,  and  sent  the  baggage  bumping  about  the  pas- 
sengers’ shoulders.  The  coachman  at  the  call  of  another  Eng- 
lish bagman,  who  was  a fellow-traveller,  — the  postilion  at  the 
call  of  the  coachman,  descended  to  re-cord  the  baggage.  The 
English  bagman  had  the  whole  mass  of  trunks  and  bags  stoutly 
corded  and  firml}^  fixed  in  a few  seconds  ; the  coachman  helped 
him  as  far  as  his  means  allowed  ; the  postilion  stood  b}"  wuth 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  smoking  his  pipe,  and  never  offering 
to  stir  a linger.  I said  to  him  that  I was  delighted  to  see  in  a 
youth  of  sixteen  that  extreme  activity  and  willingness  to  oblige, 
and  that  I would  give  him  a handsome  remuneration  for  his  ser- 
vices at  the  end  of  the  journey  : the  3^oung  rascal  grinned  with  all 
his  might,  understanding  the  satiric  nature  of  the  address  per- 
fectl}'  well ; but  he  did  not  take  his  hands  out  of  his  pockets  for 
all  that,  until  it  was  time  to  get  on  his  horse  again,  and  then, 
having  carried  us  over  the  most  dillicult  part  of  the  journe}^, 
removed  his  horse  and  pipe,  and  rode  awa\^  with  a parting 
grin. 

The  cabins  along  the  road  were  not  much  better  than  those 
to  be  seen  south  of  Tralee,  but  the  people  were  far  better 
clothed,  and  indulged  in  several  places  in  the  luxuiy  of  pig- 
sties. Near  the  prettily  situated  village  of  Ballylongford,  we 
came  in  sight  of  the  Shannon  mouth  ; and  a huge  red  round 
moon,  that  shone  behind  an  old  convent  on  the  banks  of  the 
bright  river,  with  dull  green  meadows  between  it  and  us,  and 
white  pur[)le  flats  beyond,  would  be  a good  subject  for  the 
pencil  of  any  artist  whose  wrist  had  not  been  put  out  of  joint 
by  the  previous  ten  miles’  journey. 

Tlie  town  of  Tarbcrt,  in  the  guide-books  and  topographical 
dictionaries,  flourishes  considerably.  Yon  read  of  its  port,  its 
corn  and  [)rovision  stores,  &c.,  and  of  certain  good  hotels  ; for 
which  as  travellers  we  were  looking  with  a laudable  anxiety. 
The  town,  in  fact,  contains  about  a dozen  of  houses,  some  hun- 
dreds of  cabins,  and  two  hotels  ; to  one  of  which  we  were  driven, 
and  a kind  landlady,  conducting  her  half-dozen  guests  into  a 
snug  [)arlor,  was  for  our  ordering  refreshment  immediately,  — 
which  I certainly  should  have  done,  but  for  the  ominous  whisper 
of  a fellow  in  the  crowd  as  we  descended  (of  course  a disinter- 
ested patron  of  the  other  house),  who  hissed  into  my  ears,  ^^Ask 
to  see  the  beds  A'  which  proposal,  accordingly,  I made  before 
coming  to  any  determination  regarding  supper. 

The  worthy  landlady  eluded  my  question  several  times  with 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


123 


great  skill  and  good-humor,  but  it  became  at  length  necessary 
to  answer  it ; which  she  did  by  putting  on  as  conlident  an  air 
as  possible,  and  leading  the  way  up  stairs  to  a bedroom,  where 
* there  was  a good  large  comfortable  l)ed  ccrtainh\ 

The  only  objection  to  the  bed,  however,  was  that  it  contained 
a sick  ladv,  whom  the  hostess  proposed  to  eject  without  any 
ceremony,  saying  that  she  was  a great  deal  better,  and  going 
to  get  up  tliat  very  evening.  However,  none  of  us  had  the 
heart  to  tyrannize  over  lovelv  woman  in  so  painful  a situation, 
and  the  hostess  had  the  grief  of  seeing  four  out  of  her  live 
guests  repair  across  the  wa}’^  to  “ Brallaghan’s  ” or  “ Gallagher’s 
Hotel,”  — the  name  has  fled  from  my  memory,  l)ut  it  is  the  big 
liotel  in  the  place  ; and  unless  the  sick  lady  has  quitted  the 
other  inn,  which  most  likel}"  she  has  done  by  this  time,  the  Eng- 
lish traveller  will  protit  l)y  this  advice,  and  on  arrival  at  Tar- 
bert  will  have  himself  transported  to  “Gallagher’s”  at  once. 

The  next  morning  a car  carried  us  to  Tarbert  Point,  where 
there  is  a pier  not  yet  completed,  and  a Preventive  station,  and 
where  the  Shannon  steamers  touch,  that  pl}^  between  Kilrush 
and  Limerick.  Here  lay  the  famous  river  before  us,  with  low 
banks  and  rich  pastures  on  either  side. 


CHAPTER  XIV, 

LIMERICK. 

A CAPITAL  steamer,  which  on  this  day  was  thronged  with 
people,  carried  us  for  aliout  four  hours  down  the  noble  stream 
and  landed  us  at  Limerick  quay.  The  character  of  the  land- 
scape on  either  side  the  stream  is  not  particular!}"  picturesque, 
but  large,  liberal  and  prosperous.  Gentle  sweeps  of  rich  mead- 
ows and  cornfields  cover  the  banks,  and  some,  though  not  too 
many,  gentlemen’s  parks  and  plantations  rise  here  and  there. 
But  the  landscape  was  somehow  more  pleasing  than  if  it  had 
been  merely  picturesque  ; and,  especially  after  coming  out  of 
that  desolate  county  of  Kerry,  it  was  pleasant  for  the  eye  to 
rest  upon  this  peaceful,  rich,  and  generous  scene.  The  first 
aspect  of  Limerick  is  very  smart  and  pleasing  : fine  neat  quays 
with  considerable  liveliness  and  bustle,  a very  handsome  bridge 
(the  Wellesley  Bridge)  before  the  spectator;  who,  after  a walk 


124 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


through  two  long  and  flourishing  streets,  stops  at  length  at  one 
of  the  best  inns  in  Ireland  — the  large,  neat,  and  prosperous 
one  kept  b}'  Mr.  Cruise.  Except  at  Youghal,  and  the  poor 
fellow  whom  the  Englishman  belabored  at  Glengaritf,  Mr.  Cruise  • 
is  the  only  landlord  of  an  inn  I have  had  the  honor  to  see  in 
Ireland.  I believe  these  gentlemen  commonlj^  (and  very  natu- 
rally) prefer  riding  with  the  hounds,  or  manl}*  sports,  to  attend- 
ance on  their  guests  ; and  the  landladies,  if  they  prefer  to  play 
the  piano,  or  to  have  a game  of  cards  in  the  parlor,  only  show 
a taste  at  which  no  one  can  wonder : for  who  can  expect  a lady 
to  be  troubling  herself  with  vulgar  chance-customers,  or  look' 
ing  after  M0II3'  in  the  bedroom  or  waiter  Tim  in  the  cellar? 

Now,  beyond  this  piece  of  information  regarding  the  excel- 
lence of  Mr.  Cruise's  hotel,  which  eveiy  traveller  knows,  the 
writer  of  this  doubts  very  much  whether  he  has  aiything  to  say 
about  Limerick  that  is  worth  the  trouble  of  saying  or  reading. 

I can’t  attempt  to  describe  the  Shannon,  only  to  sa^^  that  on 
board  the  steamboat  there  was  a piper  and  a bugler,  a hundred 
of  genteel  persons  coming  back  from  donke^^-riding  and  bathing 
at  Kilkee,  a couple  of  heaps  of  rawhides  that  smelt  very  foully, 
a score  of  women  nursing  children,  and  a lobster- vender,  who 
vowed  to  me  on  his  honor  that  he  gave  eightpence  apiece  for 
his  fish,  and  that  he  had  boiled  them  onl}^  the  day  before  ; but 
when  I produced  the  Guide-book,  and  solemnl}'-  told  him  to 
swear  upon  that  to  the  truth  of  his  statement,  the  lobster-seller 
turned  away  quite  abashed,  and  would  not  be  brought  to  sup- 
port his  previous  assertion  at  all.  Well,  this  is  no  description 
of  the  Shannon,  as  vou  have  no  need  to  be  told,  and  other 
travelling  cockneys  will  no  doubt  meet  neither  piper  nor  lobster- 
seller,  ngr  raw  hides  ; nor,  if  they  come  to  the  inn  where  this 
is  written,  is  it  probable  that  they  will  hear,  as  I do  this  present 
moment,  two  fellows  with  red  whiskers,  and  immense  pomp  and 
noise  and  blustering  with  the  waiter,  conclude  b}^  ordering  a 
jjint  of  ale  between  them.  All  that  one  can  hope  to  do  is,  to 
give  a sort  of  notion  of  the  movement  and  manners  of  the 
people  ; pretending  ly  no  means  to  offer  a description  of  places, 
Init  simply  an  account  of  what  one  sees  in  them. 

So  that  if  any  traveller  after  staying  two  da}’s  in  Limerick 
should  think  fit  to  })resent  the  reader  with  forty  or  fift}^  pages 
of  dissertation  upon  the  antiquities  and  history  of  the  place, 
upon  the  state  of  commerce,  religion,  education,  the  public  may 
be  prett}'  w^ell  sure  that  the  traveller  has  been  at  work  among 
the  guide-books,  and  filching  extracts  from  the  topographical 
and  local  works. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


125 


They  sa}"  there  are  three  towns  (o  make  one  Limerick : 
there  is  the  Irish  Town  on  the  Clare  side  ; the  English  Town 
with  its  old  castle  (which  has  sustained  a deal  of  battering  and 
blows  from  Danes,  from  lici-cc  Irish  kings,  from  English  warriors 
who  took  an  interest  in  the  jdace,  Ibmry  Sccundians,  Elizabetli- 
ans,  Cromwellians,  and  vice  vcrsii^  Jacobites,  King  Williamites, 
— and  nearly  escaped  being  in  tlic  hands  of  the  Robert  Emmctt- 
ites)  ; and  tinally  the  district  called  Newtown-Peiy.  In  walking 
through  this  latter  tract,  yon  arc  at  first  halflcd  to  believe  that 
you  are  arrived  in  a second  Liverj)ool,  so  tall  are  the  warehouses 
and  broad  the  quays  ; so  neat  and  trim  a street  of  near  a mile 
which  stretches  before  yon.  But  even  this  mile-long  street 
does  not,  in  a few  minutes,  a})pear  to  be  so  weallliy  and  pi'os- 
peroiis  as  it  shows  at  first  glance  ; for  of  the  po[)nlation  that 
throng  the  streets,  two-fifths  are  barefooted  women,  and  two- 
fifths  more  ragged  men  : and  the  most  part  of  the  shops  vhicli 
have  a grand  sfiow  with  them  apjiear,  when  looked  into,  to  be 
no  better  than  they  should  be,  being  empt}"  makeshift-looking 
places  with  their  best  goods  outside. 

Here,  in  this  handsome  street  too,  is  a handsome  club-house, 
with  plenty  of  idlers,  you  may  be  sure,  lolling  at  the  })ortico ; 
likewise  you  see  numerous  3’oung  officers,  with  vciy  tight 
waists  and  absurd  brass  shell-eiiaulettes  to  their  little  absurd 
frock-coats,  walking  the  pavement  — the  dandies  of  the  street. 
Then  you  behold  whole  troops  of  pear,  apple,  and  plum-women, 
selling  very  raw,  green-looking  fruit,  which,  indeed,  it  is  a 
wonder  that  an}’  one  should  eat  and  live.  The  houses  are 
bright  red  — the  street  is  full  and  gay,  carriages  and  cars  in 
iJenty  go  jingling  by  — dragoons  in  red  are  every  now  and 
tlien  clattering  up  the  street,  and  as  upon  every  car  whieli 
})asses  with  ladies  in  it  you  are  sure  (I  don’t  know  how  it  is) 
to  see  a pretty  one,  the  great  street  of  Limerick  is  altogether 
a very  brilliant  and  animated  sight. 

If  the  ladies  of  the  place  are  pretty,  indeed  the  vulgar  are 
scarcely  less  so.  I never  saw  a greater  number  of  kind,  pleas- 
ing, clever-looking  faces  among  any  set  of  people.  There  seem, 
however,  to  be  two  sorts  of  physiog-nomies  which  are  common  : 
the  pleasing  i>nd  somewhat  melancholy  one  before  mentioned, 
and  a square,  high-cheeked,  tlat-nosed  physiognomy,  not  un- 
commonly accompanied  by  a hideous  staring  head  of  dry  red 
hair.  Except,  however,  in  the  latter  case,  the  hair  flowing 
loose  and  long  is  a pretty  characteristic  of  the  women  of  the 
country  : many  a fair  one  do  }’ou  see  at  the  door  of  the  cabin, 
or  the  poor  shop  in  the  town,  combing  complacently  that 


12G 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


“ greatest  ornament  of  female  beaut}’,”  as  Mr.  Rowland  juetl}' 
calls  it. 

The  generality  of  the  women  here  seem  also  much  better 
clothed  than  in  Keriy ; and  I saw  man}’  a one  going  barefoot, 
whose  gown  was  nevertheless  a good  one,  and  whose  cloak  was 
of  fine  cloth.  Likewise  it  must  be  remarked,  that  the  beggars 
in  Limerick  were  by  no  means  so  numerous  as  those  in  Cork, 
or  in  man;’  small  places  through  which  I have  passed.  There 
were  but  five,  strange  to  say,  round  the  mail-coach  as  we  went 
away  ; and,  indeed,  not  a great  number  in  tlie  streets. 

The  belles  lettres  seems  to  be  by  no  means  so  well  cultivated 
here  as  in  Cork.  I looked  in  vain  for  a Limerick  Guide-book: 
I saw  but  one  good  shop  of  books,  and  a little  trumpery  circu- 
lating library,  which  seemed  to  be  provided  with  those  immor- 
tal works  of  a year  old  — which,  having  been  sold  for  half  a 
guinea  the  volume  at  first,  are  suddenly  found  to  be  worth  only 
a shilling.  Among  these,  let  me  mention,  with  perfect  resig- 
nation to  the  decrees  of  fate,  the  works  of  one  Titmarsh  : they 
were  rather  smartly  bound  by  an  enterprising  publisher,  and  I 
looked  at  them  in  Bishop  Murphy’s  Library  at  Cork,  in  a book- 
shop in  the  remote  little  town  of  Enuis,  and  elsewhere,  with 
a melancholy  tenderness.  Poor  flowerets  of  a season  ! (and  a 
very  short  season  too),  let  me  be  allowed  to  salute  your 
scattered  leaves  with  a passing  sigh  ! . . . . Besides  the  book- 
shops, I observed  in  the  long,  best  street  of  Limerick  a half- 
dozen  of  what  are  called  French  shops,  with  knick-knacks, 
German-silver  chimney-ornameuts,  and  paltry  finery.  In  the 
windows  of  these  you  saw  a card  with  Cigars  ; ” in  the  book- 
shop, “ Cigars  ; ” at  tlie  grocer’s,  the  whiskey-shop,  “ Cigars  : ” 
everybody  sells  the  noxious  weed,  or  makes  believe  to  sell  it, 
and  I know  no  surer  indication  of  a struggling,  uncertain  trade 
than  that  same  placard  of  Cigars.”  I went  to  buy  some  of 
the  pretty  Limerick  gloves  (they  are  chiefly  made,  as  I have 
since  discovered,  at  Cork).  I think  the  man  who  sold  them 
had  a patent  from  the  Queen,  or  his  Excellency,  or  both,  in 
his  window : but,  seeing  a friend  pass  just  as  I entered  the 
shop,  he  brushed  })ast,  and  held  his  friend  in  conversation  for 
some  minutes  in  the  street,  — about  the  Killarney  races  no 
doubt,  or  the  fun  going  on  at  Kilkee.  I might  have  swept 
away  a bagful  of  walnut-shells  containing  the  flimsy  gloves ; 
but  instead  walked  out,  makiug  him  a low  bow,  and  saying  I 
would  call  next  week.  Me  said  ‘’‘wouldn’t  I wait?”  and  re- 
sumed his  conversation  ; and,  no  doubt,  by  this  way  of  doing 
business,  is  making  a handsome  independence.  I asked  one 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  ’BOOK. 


127 


of  the  ten  thousand  fruit-women  the  price  of  her  green  pears. 
‘‘  Twopence  apiece,”  slie  said  ; and  there  were  two  little  ragged 
beggars  standing  b}’,  who  were  inunching  the  fruit.  A book- 
shopwornan  made  me  pa>'  tlircepence  for  a bottle  of  ink  which 
usually  costs  a [)eun\' ; a potato-woman  tokl  me  that  her  pota- 
toes cost  fourteenpence  a stone  : and  all  these  huiies  treated 
the  stranger  with  a leering,  wheedling  servility  which  made 
me  long  to  box  their  ears,  were  it  not  that  the  man  who  la3’s 
his  hand  ni)on  a woman  is  an  Ac.,  whom  ’twere  gross  llattery 
to  call  a wliat-d’ve-call-’im  ? }^y  the  way,  the  man  who  pla^’ed 

Duke  Aranza  at  Cork  delivered  the  celebrated  claptrap  above 
alluded  to  as  follows  : — 

“The  man  wlio  lays  liis  hand  upon  a woman, 

Save  in  tlie  way  of  kindiu'ss,  is  a villain, 

AViiom  ’twere  a (jross  piece  of  liatterj'  to  call  a coward;” 

and  looked  round  calmlv  for  the  applause,  which  deservedly 
followed  his  new  reading  of  the  passage. 

To  retni-n  to  the  apple-women  : — legions  of  ladies  were 
eni[)loved  through  the  town  n[)on  that  tratlic ; there  were  really 
thousands  of  them  clustering  u[)on  the  bridges,  squatting  down 
in  doorways  and  vacant  sheds  for  temporary  markets,  march- 
ing and  crying  their  sour  goods  in  all  the  crowded  lanes  of  tlie 
city.  After  yon  get  out  of  the  Main  Street  the  handsome  part 
of  the  town  is  at  an  end,  and  yon  suddenl}'  find  yourself  in 
such  a labvrinth  of  bnsv  swarming  [)Overty  and  squalid  com- 
merce as  never  was  seen — no,  not  in  Saint  Giles’s,  where 
Jew  and  Irishman  side  by  side  exhibit  their  genius  for  dirt. 
Here  every  house  almost  was  a half  ruin,  and  swarming  with 
people  : in  the  cellars  you  looked  down  and  saw  a barrel  of 
herrings,  which  a merchant  was  dispensing;  or  a sack  of  meal, 
which  a poor  dirty  woman  sold  to  |)eople  poorer  and  dirtier 
than  herself:  above  was  a tinman,  or  a shoemaker,  or  other 
craftsman,  his  battered  ensign  at  the  door,  and  his  small  wares 
peering  through  the  cracked  })anes  of  his  shop.  As  for  the 
ensign,  as  a matter  of  course  the  name  is  never  written  in 
letters  of  the  same  size.  You  read — ■ 

I PAT*"  HANlaH^  [,^AME=  HURLe  tt 

I TAfLok  I MAK 


or  some  similar  signboard.  High  and  low,  in  this  country, 
they  begin  things  on  too  large  a scale.  They  begin  churches 


128 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK, 


too  big  and  can’t  finish  them ; mills  and  houses  too  big,  and 
are  ruined  before  the3'  are  done  ; letters  on  signboards  too  big, 
and  are  up  in  a corner  before  the  inscription  is  finished.  There 
is  something  quite  strange,  really,  in  this  general  consistenc}^ 

Well,  over  James  Ilurle^q  or  Pat  Ilanlahan,  }^ou  will  most 
likely  see  another  board  of  another  tradesman,  with  a window 
to  the  full  as  curious.  Above  Tim  Garth}"  evidently  lives  another 
family.  There  are  long-haired  girls  of  fourteen  at  every  one  of 
the  windows,  and  dirty  children  everywhere.  In  the  cellars, 
look  at  them  in  dingy  white  nightcaps  over  a bowl  of  stirabout ; 
in  the  shop,  paddling  up  and  down  the  ruined  steps,  or  issuing 
from  beneath  the  black  counter ; up  above,  see  the  girl  of  four- 
teen is  tossing  and  dandling  one  of  them : and  a pretty  tender 
sight  it  is,  in  the  midst  of  this  filth  and  wretchedness,  to  see 
the  women  and  children  together.  It  makes  a sunshine  in  the 
dark  place,  and  somehow  half  reconciles  one  to  it.  Children 
are  everywhere.  Look  out  of  the  nasty  streets  into  the  still 
more  nasty  back  lanes  : there  they  are,  sprawling  at  every  door 
and  court,  paddling  in  every  puddle  ; and  in  about  a fair  pro- 
portion to  every  six  children  an  old  woman  — a very  old,  blear- 
eyed,  ragged  woman  — who  makes  believe  to  sell  something 
out  of  a basket,  and  is  perpetually  calling  upon  the  name  of 
the  Lord.  For  every  three  ragged  old  women  } ou  will  see  two 
ragged  old  men,  praying  and  moaning  like  the  females.  And 
there  is  no  lack  of  young  men,  either,  though  I never  could 
make  out  what  they  were  about : they  loll  about  the  street, 
chiefly  conversing  in  knots  ; and  in  every  street  you  will  be 
pretty  sure  to  see  a recruiting-sergeant,  with  gay  ribbons  in 
his  cap,  loitering  about  with  an  eye  upon  the  other  loiterers 
there.  The  buzz  and  hum  and  chattering  of  this  crowd  is 
quite  inconceivable  to  us  in  England,  where  a crowd  is  gener- 
ally silent.  As  a person  with  a decent  coat  passes,  they  stop 
in  their  talk  and  say,  “ God  bless  you  for  a fine  gentleman!  ” 
In  these  crowded  streets,  where  all  are  beggars,  the  beggary 
is  but  small : only  the  very  old  and  hideous  venture  to  ask  for 
a penny,  otherwise  the  competition  would  be  too  great. 

As  for  the  buildings  that  one  lights  upon  every  now  and 
then  in  the  midst  of  such  scenes  as  this,  they  are  scarce  worth 
the  trouble  to  examine:  occasionally  you  come  on  a chapel 
with  sham  Gothic  windows  and  a little  belfry,  one  of  the  Catho- 
lic ])laces  of  worship  ; then,  placed  in  some  quiet  street,  a neat- 
looking Dissenting  meeting-house.  Across  the  river  yonder, 
as  you  issue  out  from  the  street  where  tlie  preceding  skctcii 
was  taken,  is  a handsome  hospital ; ncai  it  the  old  cathedral; 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


129 


a barbarous  old  turreted  edifice  — of  the  fourteenth  century  it  is 
said  : how  different  to  the  sumptuous  elegance  which  character- 
izes the  English  and  continental  churches  of  the  same  period ! 
Passing  by  it,  and  walking  down  other  streets, — black,  ruin- 
ous, swarming,  dark,  hideous,  — you  come  upon  the  barracks 
and  the  walks  of  the  old  castle,  and  from  it  on  to  an  old  bridge, 
from  which  the  view  is  a line  one.  On  one  side  are  the  gra^^ 
bastions  of  the  castle  ; beyijiid  them,  in  the  midst  of  the  broad 
stream,  stands  a huge  mill  that  looks  like  another  castle  ; liir- 
ther  yet  is  the  handsome  ncAv  Wellesley  Bridge,  with  some  little 
craft  upon  the  river,  and  the  red  warehouses  of  the  New  Town 
looking  prosperous  enough.  The  Irish  Town  stretches  away 
to  the  right;  there  are  i>rett3'  villas  beyond  it;  and  on  the 
bridge  are  walking  twenty-four  young  girls,  in  [larties  of  four 
and  live,  with  their  arms  round  each  other’s  waists,  swaying 
to  and  fro,  and  singing  or  chattering,  as  happ}^  as  if  they  had 
shoes  to  their  feet.  Yonder  you  see  a dozen  [>air  of  red  legs 
glittering  in  the  water,  their  owners  being  employed  in  wash- 
ing their  own  or  other  people’s  rags. 

The  Guide-book  mentions  that  one  of  the  aboriginal  forests 
of  the  countiy  is  to  be  seen  at  a few  miles  from  Limerick,  and 
thinking  that  an  aboriginal  forest  would  be  a huge  discovery, 
and  form  an  instructive  and  delightful  feature  of  the  present 
work,  I hired  a car  in  order  to  visit  the  same,  and  pleased  ni}'- 
seif  with  visions  of  gigantic  oaks,  Druids,  Norma,  wildernesses 
and  awful  gloom,  which  would  fill  the  soul  with  horror.  The 
romance  of  the  place  was  heightened  b}^  a fact  stated  b}'  the 
carman,  viz.  that  until  late  years  robberies  were  veiy  frequent 
about  the  wood  ; the  inhabitants  of  the  district  being  a wild, 
lawless  race.  Moreover,  there  are  numerous  castles  round 
about,  — and  for  what  can  a man  wash  more  than  robbers, 
castles,  and  an  aboriginal  wood? 

The  way  to  these  wonderful  sights  lies  through  the  undulftt- 
ing  grounds  which  border  the  Shannon  ; and  though  the  view  is 
by  no  means  a fine  one,  I know  few  that  are  pleasanter  than  the 
sight  of  these  rich,  golden,  peaceful  plains,  with  the  full  harvest 
waving  on  them  and  just  ready  for  the  sickle.  The  hay  harvest 
was  likewise  just  being  concluded,  and  the  air  loaded  with  the 
rich  odor  of  the  hay.  Above  the  trees,  to  your  left,  you  saw 
the  mast  of  a ship,  perhaps  moving  along,  and  every  now  and 
then  caught  a glimpse  of  the  Shannon,  and  the  low  grounds 
and  plantations  of  the  opposite  county  of  Limerick.  Not  an 
unpleasant  addition  to  the  landscape,  too,  was  a siglit  which  I 
do  not  remember  to  have  witnessed  often  in  this  country  — that 


130 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


of  several  small  and  decent  farm-houses,  with  their  stacks  and 
sheds  and  stables,  giving  an  air  of  neatness  and  plenty  that  the 
poor  cabin  with  its  potato-patch  does  not  present.  Is  it  on 
account  of  the  small  farms  that  the  land  seems  richer  and  better 
cultivated  here  than  in  most  other  parts  of  the  country  ? Some 
of  the  houses  in  the  midst  of  the  warm  summer  landscape  had  a 
strange  appearance,  for  it  is  often  the  fashion  to  whitewash  the 
roofs  of  the  houses,  leaving  the  slates  of  the  walls  of  their 
natural  color:  hence,  and  in  the  evening  especially,  contrasting 
with  the  purple  sky,  the  house-tops  often  looked  as  if  they  were 
covered  with  snow. 

According  to  the  Guide-book’s  promise,  the  castles  began 
soon  to  appear : at  one  point  we  could  see  three  of  these  an- 
cient mansions  in  a line,  each  seemingly  with  its  little  grove  of 
old  trees,  in  the  midst  of  the  bare  but  fertile  country.  By  this 
time,  too,  we  had  got  into  a road  so  abominably  bad  and  rocky, 
that  I began  to  believe  more  and  more  with  regard  to  the  splen- 
dor of  the  aboriginal  forest,  which  must  be  most  aboriginal  and 
ferocious  indeed  when  approached  by  such  a savage  path.  After 
travelling  through  a couple  of  lines  of  wall  with  plantations  on 
either  side,  I at  length  became  impatient  as  to  the  forest,  and, 
much  to  my  disappointment,  w'as  told  this  w^as  it.  For  the  fact 
is,  that  though  the  forest  has  always  been  there,  the  trees  have 
not,  the  proprietors  cutting  them  regularl}'  when  grown  to  no 
great  height,  and  the  monarchs  of  the  woods  which  I saw  round 
about  would  scarce!}'  have  afforded  timber  for  a bed-post. 
Nor  did  any  robbers  make  their  appearance  in  this  wilderness : 
with  which  disappointment,  however,  I was  more  willing  to  put 
up  than  with  the  former  one. 

But  if  the  wood  and  the  robbers  did  not  come  up  to  my 
romantic  notions,  the  old  Castle  of  Bunratty  fully  answered 
them,  and  indeed  should  be  made  the  scene  of  a romance,  in 
three  volumes  at  least. 

“ It  is  a huge,  square  tower,  with  four  smaller  ones  at  each 
angle  ; and  you  mount  to  the  entrance  by  a steep  flight  of  steps, 
being  commanded  all  the  way  by  the  cross-bows  of  two  of  the 
Lord  De  Clare’s  retainers,  the  points  of  whose  weapons  may  be 
seen  lying  upon  the  ledge  of  the  little  narrow'  meurtriere  on  eacli 
side  of  the  gate.  A venerable  seneschal,  with  the  keys  of 
office,  presently  opens  the  little  back  postern,  and  you  are 
admitted  to  the  great  hall  — a noble  chamber,  pardi ! some 
seventy  feet  in  length  and  thirty  high.  ’Tis  hung  round  with  a 
thousand  trophies  of  w'ar  and  chase,  — the  golden  helmet  and 
spear  of  the  Irish  king,  the  long  yellow  mantle  he  wore,  and  the 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


131 


huge  brooch  that  bound  it.  Hugo  De  Clare  slew  him  before 
the  castle  in  1305,  when  he  and  his  kernes  attacked  it.  Less 
successful  in  1314,  the  gallant  Hugo  saw  his  village  of  Bun- 
ratty  burned  round  his  tower  b}'  the  son  of  the  slaughtered 
O’Neil ; and,  sallying  out  to  avenge  the  insult,  was  brought 
back — a corpse  ! Ah!  what  was  tlie  pang  that  shot  through 
the  fair  bosom  of  the  Ladij  Adda  when  she  iaiew  that  ’twas  the 
hand  of  Redmond  O'Neil  s[)ed  the  siiaft  which  slew  her  sire  ! 

“You  listen  to  this  sad  story,  reposing  on  an  oaken  settle 
(covered  witli  deer’s-skin  taken  in  tlie  aboriginal  forest  of  Car- 
clow  liard  by)  placed  at  the  enormous  hall-tirc.  Here  sits 
Thonom  an  Diaoul,  ‘ Dark  Thomas,’  the  blind  harper  of  the 
race  of  De  Clare,  who  loves  to  tell  the  deeds  of  tlie  lordly  hiinil}'. 
‘ Penetrating  in  disguise,’  he  continues,  *'  into  the  castle,  Red- 
mond of  the  golden  locks  sought  an  interview  with  the  Lily  of 
Bunratty ; but  she  screamed  when  she  saw^  him  under  the  dis- 
guise of  the  gleeman,  and  said,  “ My  father’s  blood  is  in  the 
hall!”  At  this,  up  started  fierce  Sir  Ranulph.  “Ho,  Bhid- 
yer ! ” he  cried  to  his  squire,  “ call  me  the  hangman  and  Father 
John  ; seize  me,  vassals,  3’on  villain  in  glecman’s  guise,  and 
hang  him  on  the  gallows  on  the  tower  ! ” ’ 

“ ‘ Will  it  please  ye  walk  to  the  roof  of  the  old  castle  and  see 
the  beam  on  which  the  lords  of  the  place  execute  the  refractory?’ 

‘ Nay,  marry,’  say  you,  ‘ hy  my  spurs  of  knighthood,  I have 
seen  hanging  enough  in  meriy  England,  and  care  not  to  see  the 
gibbets  of  Irish  kernes.’  The  harper  would  have  taken  fire  at 
this  speech  reflecting  on  his  countiy  ; but  luckily  here  Gulph, 
your  English  squire  entered  from  the  pantler  (with  whom  he 
had  been  holding  a parley),  and  brought  a manchet  of  bread, 
and  bade  ye,  in  the  Lord  De  Clare’s  name,  crush  a cup  of 
Ypoeras,  well  spiced,  pardi^  and  by  the  fair  hands  of  the  Ladj^ 
Adela. 

“ ‘ The  Lady  Adela  ! ’ say  you,  starting  up  in  amaze.  ‘ Is 
not  this  the  year  of  grace  1600,  and  lived  she  not  three  hundred 
3"ears  syne  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes,  vSir  Knight,  but  Bunratt}"  tower  hath  another  Lily: 
will  it  please  you  see  your  chamber  ? ’ 

“ So  saying,  the  seneschal  leads  you  up  a winding  stair  in 
one  of  the  turrets,  past  one  little  dark  chamber  and  another, 
without  a fireplace,  without  rushes  (how  different  from  the 
stately  houses  of  Nonsuch  or  Audley  End  !),  and,  leading  you 
through  another  vast  chamber  above  the  baronial  hall,  similar 
in  size,  but  decorated  with  tapestries  and  rude  carvings,  you 
pass  the  little  chapel  (‘  Marry,’  says  the  steward,  ‘ many  would 


132 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


it  not  hold,  and  man}-  do  not  come!’)  until  at  last  3’ou  are 
located  in  the  little  cell  appropriated  to  3"ou.  Some  rnde 
attempts  have  been  made  to  render  it  fitting  for  the  stranger ; 
but,  though  more  neatly  arranged  than  the  hundred  other  little 
chambers  which  the  castle  contains,  in  sooth  ’tis  scarce  fitted 
for  the  serving-man,  much  more  for  Sir  Reginald,  the  English 
knight. 

“ While  3^ou  are  looking  at  a bouquet  of  flowers,  which  lies  on 
the  settle  — magnolias,  geraniums,  the  blue  flowers  of  the  cactus, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  bouquet,  one  lily ; whilst  you  wonder 
whose  fair  hands  could  have  culled  the  flowers — hark!  the 
horns  are  blowing  at  the  drawbridge  and  the  warder  lets  the 
})ortcullis  down.  You  rush  to  3'our  window,  a stalwart  knight 
rides  over  the  gate,  the  hoofs  of  liis  black  courser  clanging  upon 
the  planks.  A host  of  wild  retainers  wait  round  about  him : 
see,  four  of  them  cany  a stag,  that  hath  been  slain  no  doubt  in 
the  aboriginal  forest  of  Carclow.  ‘ By  m3^  fay  ! ’ sa3"  you,  ‘ ’tis 
a stag  of  ten.’ 

But  who  is  that  3'onder  on  the  gray  palfre3q  conversing  so 
prettily,  and  holding  the  sportive  animal  with  so  light  a rein? 
— a light  green  ridiug-habit  and  ruff,  a little  hat  with  a green 
plume  — sure  it  must  be  a ladv,  and  a fair  one.  She  looks  up. 
O blessed  Mother  of  Heaven,  that  look  ! those  eyes  that  smile, 
those  suniy'  golden  ringlets  ! It  is  — it  is  the  Lad3*  Adela  : the 
Lily  of  Bunrat  ...” 

If  the  reader  cannot  finish  the  other  two  volumes  for  him  or 
herself,  ho  or  she  never  deserves  to  have  a novel  from  a circu- 
lating librarv  again  : for  m\'  part,  I will  take  m3'  affidavit  the 
English  knight  will  many  the  LiU'  at  the  end  of  the  third 
volume,  having  previously  slain  the  other  suitor  at  one  of  the 
multifarious  sieges  of  Limerick.  And  I beg  to  sa3'  that  the 
liistorical  part  of  this  romance  has  been  extracted  carefull3^ 
from  the  Guide-book  : the  to[)Ographical  and  descriptive  portion 
being  studied  on  the  s[)ot.  A policeman  shows  3'ou  over  it, 
halls,  chapels,  galleries,  gibbets  and  all.  The  huge  old  tower 
was,  until  late  years,  inhabited  by  the  family  of  the  proprietor, 
Avho  built  himself  a house  in  the  midst  of  it : but  he  has  since 
built  another  in  the  park  opposite,  and  half  a dozen  “ Peelers,” 
with  a commodit3"  of  wives  and  children,  now  inhabit  Bunratt3'. 
On  the  gate  where  we  entered  were  numerous  placards  offering 
rewards  for  the  apprehension  of  various  countiy  offenders  ; and 
a turnpike,  a bridge,  and  a quay  have  sprung  iq)  from  the  place 
which  Red  Redmond  (or  anybod3'  else)  burned. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


133 


On  onr  road  to  Galway  tlie  next  day,  we  were  earried  once 
more  by  the  old  tower,  and  for  a considerable  distance  along 
the  fertile  l)anks  of  the  Fergus  lake,  and  a river  which  pours 
itself  into  the  Shannon.  The  first  town  we  come  to  is  Castle 
Clare,  which  lies  eonvenientl}^  on  the  river,  with  a castle,  a good 
bridge,  and  inaiyy  (plan's  and  warehouses,  near  which  a small 
shi[)  or  two  were  lying.  The  place  was  once  the  chief  town  of 
the  count}',  but  is  wretched  and  riiinons  now,  being  made  n[) 
for  the  most  part  of  miserable  thatched  cots,  round  which  yon 
see  the  usual  dusky  i)Opnlation.  The  drive  hence  to  Ennis  lies 
through  a countiy  which  is  by  no  means  so  pleasant  as  that  rich 
one  we  have  passed  through,  being  succeeded  ‘‘  by  that  craggy, 
bleak,  pastoral  district  which  occupies  so  large  a portion  of  the 
limestone  district  of  Clare.”  Ennis,  likewise,  stands  iq)on  the 
Fergus  — a busy  little  narrow-streeted,  foreign-looking  town, 
approached  by  half  a mile  of  thatched  cots,  in  which  I am  not 
ashamed  to  confess  that  I saw  some  as  [)rctty  faces  as  over 
aiyy  half-mile  of  country  I ever  travelled  in  m}'  life. 

A great  light  of  the  Catholic  Church,  who  was  of  late  a 
candlestick  in  our  own  communion,  was  on  the  coach  with  us, 
reading  devoutly  out  of  a breviary  on  many  occasions  along  the 
road.  A crowd  of  black  coats  and  heads,  with  that  indescrib- 
able look  which  belongs  to  the  Catholic  clergy,  were  evidently 
on  the  look-out  for  the  coach  ; and  as  it  stop[)ed,  one  of  them 
came  u[)  to  me  with  a low  bow,  and  asked  if  I was  the  Honor- 
able and  Reverend  Mr.  S ? How  I wish  I had  answered 

him  I was  ! It  would  have  been  a grand  scene.  The  respect 
paid  to  this  gentleman’s  descent  is  (piite  absurd  : the  papers 
bandy  his  title  about  with  pleased  emphasis  — the  Galway  paper 
calls  him  the  very  reverend.  There  is  something  in  the  love 
for  rank  almost  childish : witness  the  adoration  of  George  IV.  ; 
the  pompous  joy  with  which  John  Tuam  records  his  correspond- 
ence with  a great  man  ; the  continual  My-Lording  of  the  Bishops, 
the  Right-Honorabling  of  Mr.  O’Connell  — which  title  his  party 
paj)ers  delight  on  all  occasions  to  give  him  — nay,  the  deliglit 
of  that  great  man  himself  when  first  he  attained  the  dignity  : 
he  figured  in  his  robes  in  the  most  good-humored  simple  delight 
at  having  them,  and  w'ent  to  church  forthwith  in  them  ; as  if 
such  a man  wanted  a title  before  his  name. 

At  Ennis,  as  well  as  everywhere  else  in  Ireland,  there  were 
of  course  the  regular  number  of  swaggering-looking  buckeens 
and  shabby-genteel  idlers  to  watch  the  arrival  of  the  mail- 
coach.  A poor  old  idiot,  with  his  gra}'  hair  tied  up  in  bows, 
and  with  a ribbon  behind,  thrust  out  a very  fair  soft  hand  with 


134 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


taper  fingers,  and  told  me,  nodding  liis  head  very  wistfully, 
that  he  had  no  father  nor  mother : upon  which  score  he  got  a 
penny.  Nor  did  the  other  beggars  round  the  carriage  who  got 
none  seem  to  grudge  the  poor  fellow’s  good  fortune.  I think 
when  one  poor  wretch  has  a piece  of  luck,  the  others  seem  glad 
here : and  they  promise  to  pra^-  for  you  just  the  same  if  you 
give  as  if  }'OU  refuse. 

The  town  was  swarming  with  people  ; the  little  dark  streets, 
which  twist  about  in  all  directions,  being  full  of  cheap  mer- 
chandise and  its  venders.  Whether  there  are  man}"  buyers,  I 
can’t  say.  This  is  written  opposite  the  market  place  in  Gal- 
way, where  I have  w^atched  a stall  a hundred  times  in  the 
course  of  the  last  three  hours  and  seen  no  money  taken : but 
at  every  place  I come  to,  I can’t  help  wondering  at  the  num- 
bers ; it  seems  market-day  everywhere  — apples,  pigs,  and 
j)otatoGS  being  sold  all  over  the  kingdom.  There  seem  to  be 
some  good  shops  in  those  narrow  streets  ; airrong  others,  a 
decent  little  library,  where  I bought,  for  eighteenpence,  six 
volumes  of  works  strictly  Irish,  that  will  serve  for  a half-hour’s 
gossip  on  the  next  rainy  day. 

The  road  hence  to  Goit  carried  us  at  first  by  some  dismal, 
lonely-looking,  reedy  lakes,  through  a melancholy  country ; an 
i^pcn  village  standing  here  and  there,  with  a big  chapel  in  the 
midst  of  it,  almost  always  unfinished  in  some  point  or  other. 
Crossing  at  a bridge  near  a place  called  Tubbor,  the  coachman 
told  us  we  were  in  the  famous  county  of  Galway,  which  all 
readers  of  novels  admii'e  in  the  warlike  works  of  Maxwell  and 
Lever ; and,  dismal  as  the  country  had  been  in  Clare,  I think 
on  tlie  northern  side  of  the  bridge  it  was  dismaller  still  — the 
stones  not  only  appearing  in  the  character  of  hedges,  but  strew- 
ing over  whole  fields,  in  which  sheep  were  browsing  as  well  as 
they  could. 

Wq  rode  for  miles  through  this  stony,  dismal  district,  seeing 
more  lakes  now  and  anon,  witli  fellows  spearing  eels  in  the 
midst.  Then  we  passed  the  plantations  of  Lord  Gort’s  Castle 
of  Loughcooter,  and  presently  came  to  the  town  which  bears 
his  name,  or  vice  versa.  It  is  a regularly-built  little  place,  with 
a square  and  street : but  it  looked  as  if  it  wondered  how  the 
deuce  it  got  into  the  midst  of  such  a desolate  country,  and 
seemed  to  hare  itself  there  considerabh'.  It  had  nothing  to  do, 
and  no  society. 

A short  time  before  arriving  at  Oranmore,  one  has  glimpses 
of  the  sea,  which  comes  opportunely  to  relieve  the  dulness  of 
the  land.  Between  Gort  and  that  place  we  passed  through 


THE  IRTSII  SKETCH  BOOK. 


135 


little  but  the  most  woful  countiy,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  a 
village,  where  a horse-fair  was  held,  and  where  (upon  the  word 
of  the  coachman)  all  the  bad  horses  of  the  countiy  were  to  be 
seen.  The  man  was  commissioned,  no  doubt,  to  bu}'  for  his 
employers,  for  two  or  three  merchants  were  on  the  look-out 
for  him,  and  ti’otted  out  their  cattle  hy  the  side  of  tiie  coach. 
A very  good,  neat-looking,  smart-trotting  chestnut  hoi'se,  of 
seven  years  old,  was  ottered  by  the  owner  for  81.  ; a neat  brown 
mare  for  10/.,  and  a better  (as  I presume)  for  14/.  ; but  all 
looked  very  respectable,  and  1 have  the  coachman’s  word  for  it 
that  they  were  good  servicealtte  horses.  Oran  more,  with  an 
old  castie  in  the  midst  of  the  village,  woods,  and  park-planta- 
tions round  about,  and  the  bay  beyond  it,  has  a pretty  and 
romantic  look  ; and  the  drive,  of  about  four  miles  thence  to 
Galway,  is  the  most  picturesque  part  perhaps  of  the  fifty  miles’ 
ride  from  Limerick.  The  road  is  tolerably  wooded.  You  see 
the  town  itself,  with  its  huge  old  church-tower,  stretching  along 
the  bay,  “ backed  by  hills  linking  into  the  long  chain  of  moun- 
tains which  stretch  across  Connemara  and  the  Jo3’ce  country.” 
A suburb  of  cots  that  seems  almost  endless  has,  however,  an 
end  at  last  among  the  houses  of  the  town  ; and  a little  fleet  of 
a cou[)le  of  hundred  fishing-boats  was  manoeuvring  in  the  bright 
waters  of  the  bay. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

GALWAY “ KILROY’s  HOTEL  ” GALWAY  NIGHTS’  ENTERTAIN- 
MENTS   FIRST  NIGHT  : AN  EVENING  WITH  CAPTAIN  FREENY. 

When  it  is  stated  that,  throughout  the  town  of  Galwa^y  }’ou 
cannot  get  a cigar  which  costs  more  than  twopence,  Londoners 
may  imagine  the  strangeness  and  remoteness  of  the  place.  The 
rain  poured  dow)i  for  two  days  after  our  arrival  at  “ Kilroy’s 
Hotel.”  An  umbrella  under  such  circumstances  is  a poor 
resource : self-contemplation  is  far  more  amusing ; especiall}^ 
smoking,  and  a game  at  cards,  if  any  one  will  be  so  good  as  to 
play. 

But  there  was  no  one  in  the  hotel  coffee-room  who  was 
inclined  for  the  sport.  The  company  there,  on  the  day  of 
our  arrival,  consisted  of  two  coach-passengers,  — a Frenchman 


130 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  ROOK. 


who  came  from  Sligo,  and  ordered  mutton-chops  and  paid 
potatoes  for  dinner  by  himself,  a turbot  which  cost  two  shil- 
lings, and  in  Billingsgate  would  have  been  worth  a guinea, 
and  a couple  of  native  or  inhabitant  bachelors,  who  frequented 
the  taUe-d’ hote. 

B}’^  the  wa}’,  besides  these  there  were  at  dinner  two  turkeys 
(so  that  Mr.  Kilroy’s  two-shilling  ordinaiy  was  by  no  means 
ill  supplied)  ; and,  as  a stranger,  I had  the  honor  of  carving 
these  animals,  which  were  dispensed  in  rather  a singular  way. 
There  are,  as  it  is  generall}'  known,  to  two  turkeys  four  wings. 
Of  the  four  passengers,  one  ate  no  turkey,  one  had  a pinion, 
another  the  remaining  part  of  the  wing,  and  the  fourth  gentle- 
man took  the  other  three  wings  for  his  share.  Does  everybod}" 
in  Galwaj’  eat  three  wings  when  there  are  two  turke3^s  for  din- 
ner? One  has  heard  wonders  of  the  countiy, — the  dashing, 
daring,  duelling,  desperate,  rollicking,  whiskey-drinking  people  : 
but  this  wonder  beats  all.  AVhen  I asked  the  Galwa}^  turki- 
l)hagus  (there  is  no  other  word,  for  Turke^^  was  invented  long 
after  Greece)  ‘‘  if  he  would  take  a third  wing?”  with  a peculiar 
satiric  accent  on  the  words  thirdioing^  which  cannot  be  expressed 
in  writing,  but  which  the  occasion  fully  merited,  I thought  per- 
haps that,  following  the  custom  of  the  countiy,  where  eveiybody, 
according  to  Maxwell  and  Lever,  challenges  everybod^^  else,  — 
I thought  the  Galwagian  w^ould  call  me  out ; but  no  such  thing. 
He  only  said,  “ If  you  plase,  sir,”  in  the  blandest  way  in  the 
world  ; and  gobbled  up  the  limb  in  a twinkling. 

As  an  encouragement,  too,  for  persons  meditating  that 
important  change  of  condition,  the  gentleman  was  a teetotal- 
er : he  took  but  one  glass  of  water  to  that  intolerable  deal  of 
bubblyjock.  Galway  must  be  ATiy  much  changed  since  the 
days  wlien  Maxwell  and  Lever  knew  it.  Three  turke3'-wings 
and  a glass  of  water ! But  the  man  cannot  be  the  representa- 
tive of  a class,  that  is  clear : it  is  physically  and  arithmetically 
impossible.  They  can’t  all  eat  three  wings  of  two  turkeys  at 
dinner  ; the  turkeys  could  not  stand  it,  let  alone  the  men.  These 
wings  must  have  been  “ non  usitatm  ( nec  tenues)  pennse.”  But 
no  more  of  these  flights  ; let  us  come  to  sober  realities. 

The  fact  is,  that  when  the  rain  is  ponring  down  in  the  streets 
the  traveller  has  little  else  to  remark  except  these  peculiarities 
of  his  fellow-travellers  and  inn-sojourners  ; and,  lest  one  should 
be  led  into  further  personalities,  it  is  best  to  quit  that  water- 
drinking gormandizer  at  once,  and  retiring  to  a private  apart- 
ment, to  devote  one’s  self  to  quiet  observation  and  the  acquisition 
of  knowledge,  eithei-  by  looking  out  of  the  window  and  examiiv 


THE  IRISH  SiOITCH  BOOK. 


IOH. 

o< 

Ing  mankind,  or  ])y  perusing  books,  and  so  living  with  past 
lieroes  and  ages. 

As  for  the  knowledge  to  be  had  by  looking  out  of  window, 
it  is  this  evening  not  much.  A great,  wide,  blank,  l)leak,  water- 
wln'[)ped  square  lies  Ix'fore  the  l)edrooin  window  ; at  the  oppo- 
site side  of  which  is  to  be  seen  tlie  op[)osilion  hotel,  looking 
('ven  more  bleak  and  cheerless  than  that  over  whicli  Mr.  Kilroy 
pi'esides.  Large  dismal  warc'houses  and  private  houses  form 
thi-ee  sides  of  tlie  s(iuare  ; and  in  the  midst  is  a l)are  pleasure- 
ground  surrounded  by  a gi’owth  of  gaunt  iron-railings,  the  only 
plants  seemingly  in  the  place.  Three  triangular  edifices  that 
look  somewhat  like  gibbets  stand  in  the  paved  part  of  the 
square,  but  the  victims  that  are  consigned  to  their  fate  under 
these  triangles  are  only  i)otntoes,  which  are  weighed  there  ; and, 
in  spite  of  the  toi'rents  of  rain,  a crowd  of  barefooted,  red-pet- 
ticoated  women,  and  men  in  gray  coats  and  flower-pot  hats,  are 
pursuing  their  little  bargains  with  the  utmost  calmness.  The 
rain  seems  to  make  no  impression  on  the  males  ; nor  do  the 
w'omen  guard  against  it  more  than  by  fiinging  a petticoat  over 
their  heads,  and  so  stand  bargaining  and  chattering  in  Irish, 
their  figures  indefinite!}^  reflected  in  the  shining,  varnished  pave- 
ment. Donkeys  and  pony-carts  innumerable  stand  around, 
similarly  reflected  ; and  in  the  baskets  upon  these  vehicles  you 
see  shoals  of  herrings  lying.  After  a short  space  this  prospect 
becomes  somewhat  tedious,  and  one  looks  to  other  sources  of 
consolation. 

The  eighteenpenny worth  of  little  books  purchased  at  Ennis 
in  the  morning  came  here  most  agreeal)ly  to  my  aid  ; and  indeed 
they  afford  many  a pleasant  hour’s  reading.  Like  the  “ Biblio- 
th'que  Grise,”  which  one  sees  in  the  French  cottages  in  the 
provinces,  and  the  German  Volksbucher,”  both  of  which 
contain  stores  of  old  legends  that  are  still  treasured  in  the 
country,  these  yellow-covered  l)ooks  are  prepared  for  the  people 
chiefly ; and  hav^e  been  sold  for  many  long  years  before  the 
march  of  knowledge  began  to  banish  Fancy  out  of  the  world, 
and  gave  us,  in  place  of  the  old  fairy  tales,  Fenny  Magazines 
and  similar  wholesome  works.  Where  are  the  little  harlequin- 
backed  story-books  that  used  to  be  read  by  children  in  Eng- 
land some  thirty  years  ago?  AVhere  such  authentic  narratives 
as  “Captain  Bruce’s  Travels,”  “The  Dreadful  Adventures  of 
Sawney  Bean,”  &c.,  which  were  commonly  supplied  to  the 
little  l3oys  at  school  by  the  same  old  lady  who  sold  oranges 
and  alycompayne?  — they  are  all  gone  out  of  the  world,  and 
replaced  by  such  books  as  “Conversations  on  Chemistry,” 


138 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


“The  Little  Geologist,”  “Peter  Parle^^’s  Tales  about  the 
Binomial  Theorem,”  and  the  like.  The  world  will  be  a dull 
world  some  hundreds  of  3"ears  hence,  when  Fanc}^  shall  be 
dead,  and  ruthless  Science  (that  has  no  more  bowels  than  a 
steam-engine)  has  killed  her. 

It  is  a comfort,  meanwhile,  to  come  on  occasions  on  some  of 
the  good  old  stories  and  biographies.  These  books  were  evi- 
dently written  before  the  usefid  had  attained  its  present  detest- 
able popularity.  There  is  nothing  useful  /^ere,  that’s  certain  : 
and  a man  will  be  puzzled  to  extract  a precise  moral  out  of  the 
“ Adventures  of  Mr.  James  Freeny  or  out  of  the  legends  in 
the  “ Hibernian  Tales,”  or  out  of  the  lamentable  tragedj’  of 
the  “Battle  of  Aughrim,”  writ  in  most  doleful  Anglo-Irish 
verse.  But  are  we  to  reject  all  things  that  have  not  a moral 
tacked  to  them?  “Is  there  an}'  moral  shut  within  the  bosom 
of  the  rose?”  And  yet,  as  the  same  noble  poet  sings  (giving 
a smart  slap  to  the  utility  people  the  while),  “ useful  applica- 
tions lie  in  art  and  nature,”  and  eveiy  man  may  find  a moral 
suited  to  his  mind  in  them  ; or,  if  not  a moral,  an  occasion  for 
moralizing. 

Honest  Freeny’s  adventures  (let  us  begin  with  histoiy  and 
historic  traged}',  and  leave  fanc}'  for  future  consideration),  if 
the}'  have  a moral,  have  that  dubious  one  which  the  poet  admits 
may  be  elicited  from  a rose  ; and  which  every  man  may  select 
according  to  his  mind.  And  surely  this  is  a far  better  and 
more  comfortable  system  of  moralizing  than  that  in  the  fable- 
books,  where  you  are  obliged  to  accept  the  story  with  the  in- 
evitable moral  corollary  that  ivill  stick  close  to  it. 

Whereas,  in  Freeny’s  life,  one  man  may  see  the  evil  of  drink- 
ing, another  the  harm  of  horse-racing,  another  the  danger  at- 
tendant on  early  marriage,  a fourth  the  exceeding  inconvenience 
as  well  as  hazard  of  the  heroic  highwayman’s  life  — which  a 
certain  Ainsworth,  in  company  with  a certain  Cruikshank,  has 
represented  as  so  poetic  and  brilliant,  so  prodigal  of  delightful 
adventure,  so  adorned  with  champagne,  gold-lace,  and  brocade. 

And  the  best  })art  of  worthy  Freeny’s  tale  is  the  noble 
naivete  and  simplicity  of  the  hero  as  he  recounts  his  own  adven- 
tures, and  the  utter  unconsciousness  that  he  is  narrating  any- 
thing wonderful.  It  is  the  way  of  all  great  men,  who  recite  their 
great  actions  modestly,  and  as  if  they  were  matters  of  course; 
as  indeed  to  them  they  arc.  A common  tyro,  having  perpe- 
trated a great  deed,  would  be  amazed  and  flurried  at  his  own 
action  ; whereas  I make  no  doubt  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  after 
a great  victory,  took  his  tea  and  went  to  bed  just  as  quietly  a« 


THE  lillSll  SKETCH  BOOK. 


139 


he  would  after  a dull  debate  in  the  House  of  Lords.  And  so 
with  Freeny, — his  great  and  charming  characteristic  is  grave 
simplicity : he  does  his  work  ; he  knows  his  danger  as  well  as 
another ; but  he  goes  through  his  fearfid  duty  quite  quietly  and 
easily,  and  not  with  the  least  air  of  bravado,  or  the  smallest 
notion  that  he  is  doing  anything  uncommon. 

It  is  related  of  Carter,  the  Lion-lving,  that  when  he  was  a 
bo3g  and  exceedingly  fond  of  gingerbread-nuts,  a relation  gave 
him  a i)arcel  of  those  delicious  cakes,  which  the  child  put  in  his 
pocket  just  as  he  was  called  on  to  go  into  a cage  with  a very 
large  and  roaring  lion,  lie  had  to  put  his  head  into  the  forest- 
monarch’s  jaws,  and  leave  it  there  for  a considerable  time,  to 
the  delight  of  thousands  : as  is  even  now  the  case  ; and  the 
interest  was  so  much  the  greater,  as  the  child  was  exceedingly" 
innocent,  rosy-cheeked,  and  pretty.  To  have  seen  that  little 
flaxen  head  l)itten  off  by  the  lion  would  have  been  a far  more 
l)athetic  si)ectacle  than  that  of  the  decapitation  of  some  gray- 
bearded  old  unromantic  keeper,  who  had  served  out  raw  meat 
and  stirred  iq)  the  animals  with  a pole  anytime  these  twenty 
y^ears  : and  the  interest  rose  in  consequence. 

While  the  little  darling’s  head  was  thus  enjawed,  what  was 
the  astonishment  of  everybody'  to  see  him  put  his  hand  into  his 
little  pocket,  take  out  a paper — from  the  paper  a gingerbread- 
nut  — pop  that  gingerbread-nut  into  the  lion’s  mouth,  then  into 
his  own,  and  so  linish  at  least  two-penny'worth  of  nuts ! 

The  excitement  was  delirious  : the  ladies,  when  he  came  out 
of  chancery,  were  for  doing  what  the  lion  had  not  done,  and 
eating  him  up  — with  kisses.  And  the  only" -remark  the  young 
hero  made  was,  “Uncle,  them  nuts  wasn’t  so  crisp  as  them  I 
had  t’other  day.”  lie  never  thought  of  the  danger, — he  only" 
thought  of  the  nuts. 

Tlius  it  is  with  Freeny.  It  is  fine  to  mark  his  bravery, 
and  to  see  how  he  cracks  his  simple  philosophic  nuts  in  the  jaws 
of  innumerable  lions. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  last  century',  honest  Freeny’s 
father  was  house-steward  in  the  family  of  Joseph  Robbins, 
Esq.,  of  BallydulT;  and,  marrying  Alice  Phelan,  a maid-ser- 
vant in  the  same  family',  had  issue  James,  the  celebrated  Irish 
hero.  At  a proper  age  James  was  put  to  school ; but  being  a 
nimble,  active  lad,  and  his  father’s  mistress  taking  a fancy"  to 
him,  he  was  presently  brought  to  Ballydutf,  where  she  Jiad  a 
private  tutor  to  instruct  him  during  the  time  which  he  could 
spare  from  his  professional  duty',  which  was  that  of  pantry-boy" 
in  Mr.  Robbins’s  establishment.  At  an  early  age  he  began  to 


140 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


neglect  his  duty  ; and  although  his  father,  at  the  excellent  Mrs.  j 

Robbins’s  suggestion,  corrected  him  very  severely,  the  bent  of  ^ 

his  genius  was  not  to  be  warped  by  the  rod,  and  he  attended 
“all  the  little  countiy  dances,  diversions  and  meetings,  and 
became  what  is  called  a good  dancer ; his  own  natural  inclina- 
tions hurrying  him”  (as  he  finely  says)  “into  the  contrary 
diversions.” 

He  was  scarce  twent}^  years  old  when  he  married  (a  frightful 
proof  of  the  wicked  recklessness  of  his  former  courses),  and 
set  up  in  trade  in  Waterford  ; where,  however,  matters  went 
so  ill  with  him,  that  he  was  speedil}^  without  money,  and  50/.  in 
debt.  He  had,  he  says,  not  aiy  wa}'  of  paying  the  debt,  except 
by  selling  his  furniture  or  his  riding-mare^  to  both  of  which 
measures  he  was  averse  : for  where  is  the  gentleman  in  Ireland 
that  can  do  without  a horse  to  ride?  Mr.  Freen}^  and  his 
riding-mare  became  soon  famous,  insomuch  that  a thief  in  gaol 
W'arned  the  magistrates  of  Kilkenny  to  beware  of  a one-eyed 
man  with  a mare. 

These  unhappy  circumstances  sent  him  on  the  highway  to 
seek  a maintenance,  and  his  first  exploit  was  to  rob  a gentleman 
of  fifty  pounds  ; then  he  attacked  another,  against  whom  he 
“ had  a secret  disgust^  because  this  gentleman  had  prevented  his 
former  master  from  giving  him  a suit  of  clothes  ! ” 

Urged  by  a noble  resentment  against  this  gentleman,  Mr. 
Freeny,  in  company  with  a friend  by  the  name  ofRedd}',  robbed 
the  gentleman’s  house,  taking  therein  70/.  in  monej',  which  was 
honorably  divided  among  the  captors. 

“We  then,”  continues  Mr.  Freeny,  “quitted  the  house  with 
the  booty,  and  came  to  Thomastown  ; but  not  knowing  how  to 
dispose  of  the  plate,  left  H with  Reddv,  who  said  he  had  a friend 
from  whom  he  would  get  cash  for  it.  In  some  time  after- 
wards I asked  him  for  the  dividend  of  the  cash  he  got  for  the 
l)latc,  but  all  the  satisfaction  he  gave  me  was,  that  it  was  lost, 
which  occasioned  me  to  have  my  own  opinion  of  him 

Mr.  Freenv  then  robbed  Sir  William  Fownes’  servant  of  14/., 
in  such  an  artful  manner  that  everybody  believed  the  servant 
had  himself  secreted  the  mone}^ ; and  no  doubt  the  rascal  was 
turned  adrift,  and  starved  in  consequence  — a truly  comic  in- 
cident, and  one  that  could  be  used,  so  as  to  provoke  a great 
deal  of  laughter,  in  an  historical  work  of  which  our  champion 
should  be  the  hero. 

The  next  enterprise  of  importance  is  that  against  the  house 
of  Colonel  Palliser,  which  Freenv  thus  picturesquely  describes. 
Coming  with  one  of  his  spies  close  up  to  the  house,  Mr.  Freeny 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


141 


watched  the  Colonel  lighted  to  bed  by  a servant ; and  thus, 
as  he  eleverly  says,  could  judge  “ of  the  room  the  Colonel 
lay  in.” 

“ Some  time  afterwards,”  says  Freeny,  “ I observed  a liglit 
up  stairs,  b}"  which  I judged  the  servants  w^re  going  to  bed, 
and  soon  after  observed  that  the  candles  were  all  quenched,  by 
which  1 assured  m3’self  the}'  were  all  gone  to  bed.  I then  came 
back  to  where  the  men  were,  and  appointed  Bulger,  Motley, 
and  Commons  to  go  in  along  with  me  ; but  Commons  answered 
’tkat  he  never  had  been  in  an}'  house  before  where  there  were 
arms : upon  which  I asked  the  coward  what  business  he  had 
there,  and  swore  I would  as  soon  shoot  him  as  look  at  him, 
and  at  tlie  same  time  cocked  a pistol  to  his  breast ; but  the  rest 
of  the  men  [)revailed  upon  me  to  leave  him  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  where  lie  might  run  away  when  he  thought  proper. 

“ I then  asked  Grace  where  did  he  choose  to  be  posted  : he 
answered  ‘ that  he  would  go  where  I pleased  to  order  him,’  for 
which  I thanked  him.  We  then  immediately  came  up  to  the 
house,  lighted  our  candles,  put  Iloulahan  at  the  back  of  the 
house  to  prevent  any  person  from  coming  out  that  way,  and 
placed  Ilacket  on  my  mare,  well  armed,  at  the  front ; and  I 
then  broke  one  of  the  windows  with  a sledge,  whereupon  Bulger, 
Motley,  Grace,  and  I got  in  ; upon  which  I ordered  Motley  and 
Grace  to  go  u[)  stairs,  and  Bulger  and  I would  stay  below,  where 
we  thought  the  greatest  danger  would  be  ; but  1 immediately, 
upon  second  consideration,  lor  fear  Motley  or  Grace  should  be 
daunted,  desired  Bulger  to  go  up  with  them,  and  when  he  had 
fixed  matters  above,  to  come  down,  as  I judged  the  Colonel 
lay  below.  I then  went  to  the  room  'where  the  Colonel  was, 
and  burst  open  the  door  ; upon  which  he  said,  ‘ Odds-woimds  ! 
who’s  there?’  to  which  I answered,  ‘A  friend,  sir;’  upon 
which  he  said,  '•  You  lie  ! by  G-d,  you  are  no  friend  of  mine ! ’ 
I then  said  that  I was,  and  his  relation  also,  and  that  if  he 
viewed  me  close  he  would  know  me,  and  begged  of  him  not  to 
be  angry : upon  which  I immediately  seized  a bullet-gun  and 
case  of  pistols,  which  I observed  hanging  up  in  his  room.  I 
then  quitted  his  room,  and  walked  round  the  lower  part  of  the 
house,  thinking  to  meet  some  of  the  servants,  whom  I thought 
would  strive  to  make  their  escape  from  the  men  who  were 
above,  and  meeting  none  of  them,  I immediately  returned  to 
the  Colonel’s  room  ; where  I no  sooner  entered  than  he  desired 
me  to  go  out  for  a villain,  and  asked  why  I bred  such  disturb- 
ance in  his  house  at  that  time  of  night.  At  the  same  time  I 
snatched  his  breeches  from  under  his  head,  wherein  I got  a 


142 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


small  purse  of  gold,  and  said  that  abuse  was  not  fit  treatment 
for  me  who  was  his  relation,  and  that  it  would  hinder  me  of 
calling  to  see  him  again.  I then  demanded  the  key  of  his  desk 
which  stood  in  his  room ; he  answered  he  had  no  ke^' ; upon 
which  I said  I had  a veiy  good  key ; at  the  same  time  giving  it 
a stroke  with  the  sledge,  which  burst  it  open,  wherein  I got  a 
purse  of  ninet}"  guineas,  a four-pound  piece,  two  moidores, 
some  small  gold,  and  a large  glove  with  twenty-eight  guineas 
in  silver. 

“ this  time  Biilgei*  and  Motley  came  down  stairs  to  me, 
after  rifling  the  house  above.  We  then  observed  a closet  inside 
his  room,  which  we  soon  entered,  and  got  therein  a basket 
wherein  there  wms  plate  to  the  value  of  three  hundred  pounds.” 

And  so  they  took  leave  of  Colonel  Palliser,  and  rode  awa^^ 
with  their  earnings. 

The  stoiy,  as  liere  narrated,  has  that  simplicit}^  which  is  be- 
yond the  reach  of  all  except  the  very  highest  art ; and  it  is  not 
high  art  certainly  which  Mr.  Freeny  can  be  said  to  possess, 
but  a noble  nature  rather,  wdiich  leads  him  thus  grandl}^  to  de- 
scribe scenes  wherein  he  acted  a great  part.  With  what  a gal- 
lant determination  does  he  inform  the  coward  Commons  that 
he  would  shoot  him  as  soon  as  look  at  him  and  how  dread- 
ful he  must  have  looked  (with  his  one  ej'e)  as  he  uttered  that 
sentiment ! But  lie  left  him,  he  says  with  a grim  humor,  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  ‘‘  where  he  might  run  awaj^  when  he  thought 
jiroper.”  The  Duke  of  Wellington  must  have  read  Mr.  Freen3^’s 
histoiy  in  his  3-outh  (his  Grace’s  birthplace  is  not  far  from 
the  scene  of  the  otlier  gallant  Irishman’s  exploit),  for  the  Duke 
acted  in  [irccisely  a similar  way  ly  a Belgian  Colonel  at  Wa- 
terloo. 

It  must  1)0  painful  to  great  and  successful  commanders  to 
think  how  their  gallant  comrades  and  lieutenants,  partners  of 
tlieir  toil,  their  feelings,  and  their  fame,  are  separated  from 
them  by  time,  by  deatli,  b_v  estrangement — na_y,  sometimes 
bv  treason.  Commons  is  off,  disappearing  noiseless  into  the 
dee[)  night,  whilst  his  comrades  perform  tlie  work  of  danger; 
and  Bulger,  — Bulger,  who  in  the  above  scene  acts  so  gallant 
a part,  and  in  whom  IMr.  Freeiy  places  so  much  confidence  — 
actnalh^  went  awav  to  England,  cariying  off  “ some  plate, 
some  shirts,  a gold  watch,  and  a diamond  ring”  of  the  Cap- 
tain’s ; and,  though  he  returned  to  his  native  country,  the 
valuables  did  not  return  with  him,  on  which  the  Captain  swore 
he  would  blow  his  brains  out.  As  for  poor  Grace,  he  was 
hanged,  much  to  his  leader’s  sorrow,  who  sa_ys  of  Inni  that  he 


THE  IRTSII  SKETCH  BOOK. 


143 


was  “ the  faithfallest  of  his  spies.”  Motle}'  was  sent  to  Naas 
gaol  for  the  very  robbery  : and  though  Captain  Freeny  does 
not  mention  his  ultimate  fate,  ’tis  prol)able  lie  was  hanged  too. 
Indeed,  the  warrior’s  life  is  a hard  one,  and  over  misfortunes  like 
these  the  feeling  heart  cannot  fmt  sigh. 

Hut,  putting  out  of  the  (piestion  the  conduct  and  fate  of  the 
Captain’s  associates,  let  us  look  to  his  own  behavior  as  a leader. 
It  is  impossible  not  to  admire  his  serenity,  his  dexterit}^  that 
dashing  imiietuosity  in  the  moment  of  action  and  that  aquiline 
coup-crceil  which  belong  to  but  few  generals.  He  it  is  who 
leads  the  assault,  smashing  in  the  window  with  a sledge  ; he 
bursts  open  the  Colonel’s  door,  who  says  (naturally  enough), 
“ Odds-wounds  ! who’s  there?”  “ A friend,  sir,”  says  Freeny. 
‘‘  You  lie  ! by  Ct-d,  you  are  no  friend  of  mine  ! ” roars  the  mili- 
tary blasiihemer.  I then  said  that  I was,  and  his  relation  also, 
and  that  if  he  viewed  me  close  he  would  know  me,  and  begged 
of  him  not  to  be  angry  : upon  ichich  1 immediately  seized  a brace 
of  pistols  which  I observed  hanging  up  in  his  room;”  That  is 
something  like  presence  of  mind  : none  of  }’Our  brutal  bragga- 
docio work,  but  neat,  wary  — nay,  sportive  bearing  in  the  face 
of  danger.  And  again,  on  the  second  visit  to  the  Colonel’s 
room,  when  the  latter  bids  him  “go  out  for  a villain,  and  not 
breed  a disturbance,”  what  repl}’  makes  Freeny?  '•''At  the 
same  time  1 snatched,  his  breeches  from  under  his  head.”  A com- 
mon man  would  never  have  thought  of  looking  for  them  in  such 
a place  at  all.  The  difficult}^  about  the  kc}'  he  resolves  in  quite 
an  Alexandrian  manner ; and  from  the  specimen  we  already 
have  had  of  the  Colonel’s  style  of  speaking,  we  may  fancy  how 
ferociously  he  lay  in  bed  and  swore,  after  Captain  Freen}^  and 
his  friends  had  disappeared  with  the  ninety  guineas,  the  moi- 
dores,  the  four-pound  piece,  and  the  glove  with  twent3^-eight 
guineas  in  silver. 

As  for  the  plate,  he  hid  it  in  a wood  ; and  then,  being  out  of 
danger,  he  sat  down  and  paid  everybody  his  deserts.  By  the 
wa}q  what  a strange  difference  of  opinion  is  there  about  a 
man’s  deserts!  Here  sits  Captain  Freen}'  with  a compaii}^  of 
gentlemen,  and  awards  them  a handsome  sum  of  money  for  an 
action  which  other  people  would  have  remunerated  with  a hal- 
ter. Which  are  right?  perhaps  both:  but  at  an}"  rate  it  will 
be  admitted  that  the  Ca[)tain  takes  the  humane  view  of  the 
question. 

The  greatest  enemy  Captain  Freeny  had  was  Counsellor 
Robbins,  a son  of  his  old  patron,  and  one  of  the  most  de- 
termined thief-pursuers  the  country  ever  knew.  But  though 


144 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


he  was  untiring  in  his  efforts  to  capture  (and  of  course  to  hang) 
Mr.  Freeii}',  and  though  the  latter  was  strongly  urged  his 
friends  to  blow  the  Counsellor’s  brains  out : 3^et,  to  his  im- 
mortal honor  it  is  said,  he  refused  that  temptation,  agreeable 
as  it  was,  declaring  that  he  had  eaten  too  much  of  that  family’s 
bread  ever  to  take  the  life  of  one  of  them,  and  being  besides 
quite  aware  that  the  Counsellor  was  onl}^  acting  against  him  in 
a public  capacity.  He  respected  him,  in  fact,  like  an  honora- 
ble though  terrible  adversary. 

How  deep  a stratagem  inventor  the  Counsellor  was  may  be 
gathered  from  the  following  narration  of  one  of  his  plans  : — 

‘‘  Counsellor  Robbins  linding  his  brother  had  not  got  intelli- 
gence that  was  sufficient  to  cany  aiy^  reasonable  foundation  for 
apprehending  us,  walked  out  as  if  merely  for  exercise,  till  he 
met  with  a person  whom  he  thought  he  could  confide  in,  and 
desired  the  person  to  meet  him  at  a private  place  appointed  for 
that  purpose,  which  the}’  did  ; and  he  told  that  person  he  had  a 
very  good  opinion  of  him,  from  the  character  received  from  his 
father  of  him,  and  from  his  own  knowledge  of  him,  and  hoped 
that  the  person  would  then  show  him  that  such  opinion  was  not 
ill  founded.  The  person  assuring  the  Counsellor  he  would  do 
all  in  his  power  to  serve  and  oblige  him,  the  Counsellor  told 
him  how  greatly  he  was  concerned  to  hear  the  scandalous  char- 
act(‘r  that  part  of  the  country  (which  had  formerly  been  an 
honest  one)  had  lately  fallen  into  ; that  it  was  said  that  a gang 
of  robbers  who  disturbed  the  country  lived  thereabouts.  The 
})erson  told  him  he  was  afraid  what  he  said  was  too  true  ; and, 
on  being  asked  whom  he  sus[)ectcd,  he  named  the  same  four 
[)crsons  Mr.  Robbins  had,  but  said  he  dare  not,  for  fear  of  being 
murdered,  be  too  inquisitive,  and  therefore  could  not  say  anything 
material.  The  Counsellor  asked  him  if  he  knew  where  there  was 
imy  private  ale  to  be  sold  ; and  he  said  Moll  Burke,  who  lived 
near  the  end  of  Mr.  Robbins’s  avenue,  had  a barrel  or  half  a 
barrel.  The  Counsellor  then  gave  the  person  a moidore,  and' 
desired  him  to  go  to  Thomastown  and  buy  two  or  three  gallons 
of  whiskey,  and  bring  it  to  Moll  Burke’s,  and  invite  as  many  as 
he  suspected  to  be  either  principals  or  accessories  to  take  a 
drink,  and  make  them  drink  very  heartily,  and  when  he  found 
they  were  fuddled,  and  not  sooner,  to  tell  some  of  the  hastiest 
that  some  other  had  said  some  bad  things  of  them,  so  as  to 
provoke  them  to  abuse  and  quarrel  with  each  other ; and  then, 
l)robably  in  their  liquor  and  passion,  they  might  make  some 
discoveries  of  each  other,  as  may  enable  the  Counsellor  to  get 
some  one  of  the  gang  to  discover  and  accuse  the  rest. 


THE  lUISil  SKETCH  BOOK. 


145 


“The  person  accordingly  got  the  whiskey  and  invited  a 
good  many  to  drink  ; but  the  C'oiinsellor  being  then  at  his 
brother’s,  a few  only  went  to  Moll  Burke’s,  the  rest  being  afraid 
to  venture  while  the  Counsellor  was  in  the  neighborhood: 
among  those  who  met  there  was  one  Moll  Broph}',  the  wife  of 
Mr.  Robbins’s  smith,  and  one  Edmund  or  Edward  Stapleton, 
otherwise  Gaul,  who  lived  thereabouts  ; and  when  they  had 
drank  plentifully,  the  Counsellor’s  s[>y  told  JMoll  Broi)h}'  that 
Gaul  had  said  slie  had  gone  astra}'  with  some  persons  or  other: 
she  then  abused  Ciaul,  and  told  him  he  was  one  of  Ereeny’s 
aeeonn)lices,  for  that  he,  Gaul,  had  told  her  he  had  seen 
Colonel  Balliser’s  watch  with  Ereeny,  and  that  Ereenj^  had  told 
him,  Gaul,  that  John  Welsh  and  the  two  Graces  had  been  with 
him  at  the  robbery. 

“ The  coni})any  on  their  quarrel  broke  up,  and  the  next 
morning  the  s[)v  met  the  Counselhn-  at  the  i)lace  a[)pointed,  at 
a distance  from  Mr.  Robbins’s  house,  to  prevent  suspicion,  and 
there  told  the  Counsellor  what  intelligence  he  had  got.  The 
Counsellor  not  being  then  a justice  of  the  peace,  got  his  brother 
to  send  lor  Moll  Brophv  to  be  examined  ; but  when  she  came, 
she  refused  to  be  sworn  or  to  give  any  evidence,  and  thereupon 
the  Counsellor  had  her  tied  and  put  on  a car,  in  order  to  be 
carried  to  gaol  on  a mittimus  from  Mr.  Robbins,  for  refusing  to 
give  evidence  on  behalf  of  the  Crown.  When  she  found  she 
would  really  be  sent  to  gaol,  she  submitted  to  be  sworn,  and 
the  Counsellor  drew  from  her  what  she  had  said  the  night 
before,  and  something  further,  and  desired  her  not  to  tell  any- 
body what  she  had  sworn.” 

But  if  the  Counsellor  was  acute,  were  there  not  others  as 
clever  as  he?  For  when,  in  consequence  of  the  information  of 
Mrs.  Broplng  some  gentlemen  who  had  been  engaged  in  the 
burglarious  enterprises  in  which  ]\Ir.  Freen}"  obtained  so  much 
honor  were  seized  and  tried,  Freeiyy  came  forward  with  the 
best  of  arguments  in  their  favor.  Indeed,  it  is  fine  to  see  these 
two  great  spirits  matched  one  against  the  other,  — the  Coun- 
sellor, with  all  the  regular  force  of  the  country  to  back 

him,  — the  Highway  General,  with  but  the  wild  resources  of 

his  gallant  genius,  and  with  cunning  and  bravery  for  his  chief 
allies. 

“ I lay  by  for  a considerable  time  after,  and  concluded 

within  myself  to  do  no  more  mischief  till  after  the  assizes, 

when  I would  hear  how  it  went  with  the  men  who  were  then 
in  confinement.  Some  time  before  the  assizes  Counsellot 
Robbins  came  to  Bally  duff,  and  told  his  brother  that  he  be- 

10 


146 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


lieved  Anderson  and  Welsh  were  guilt}’,  and*  also  said  he 
would  endeavor  to  have  them  both  hanged : of  which  I was 
informed. 

“ Soon  after,  I went  to  the  house  of  one  George  Roberts, 
who  asked  me  if  I had  any  regard  for  those  fellows  who  were 
then  confined  (meaning  Anderson  and  Welsh).  I told  him  I 
had  a regard  for  one  of  them  : upon  which  he  said  he  had  a 
friend  wlio  was  a man  of  [)ower  and  interest, — that  he  would 
save  either  of  them,  provided  I would  give  him  five  guineas.  I 
told  him  I would  give  him  ten,  and  the  first  gold  watch  I could 
get ; whereupon  he  said  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  speak  to  his 
friend  without  the  money  or  value,  for  that  he  was  a mercenary 
man  : on  w’hich  I told  Roberts  I had  not  so  much  money  at  that 
time,  but  that  I would  give  him  my  watch  as  a pledge  to  give 
his  friend.  1 then  gave  him  my  watch,  and  desired  him  to 
engage  tliat  I would  pay  the  money  which  I promised  to  pay, 
or  give  value  for  it  in  plate,  in  two  or  three  nights  after ; upon 
which  he  engaged  that  his  friend  would  act  the  needful.  Then 
we  appointed  a night  to  meet,  and  we  accordingly  met ; and 
Roberts  told  me  that  his  friend  agreed  to  save  Anderson  and 
Welsh  from  the  gallows  ; whereupon  I gave  him  a plate  tank- 
ard, value  10/.,  a large  ladle,  value  4/.,  with  some  tablespoons. 
The  assizes  of  Kilkenny,  in  spring,  1748,  coming  on  soon  after. 
Counsellor  Robbins  had  Welsh  transmitted  from  Naas  to  Kil- 
kenny, in  order  to  give  evidence  against  Anderson  and  Welsh; 
and  they  were  tried  for  Mrs.  IMounford’s  robbery,  on  the  evi- 
dence of  John  Welsh  and  others.  The  [)hysic  working  well,  six 
of  the  jury  were  for  finding  them  guilty,  and  six  more  for  ae- 
qiiitting  them  ; and  the  other  six  finding  them  peremptory,  and 
that  they  were  resolved  to  starve  the  others  into  compliance,  as 
they  say  they  may  do  by  law,  were  for  their  own  sakes  obliged 
to  conq)ly  with  them,  and  they  were  acquitted.  On  which 
Counsellor  Robbins  began  to  smoke  the  afiair,  and  suspect  the 
operation  of  gold  dust,  which  was  well  applied  for  my  com- 
rades, and  thereui)on  left  the  court  in  a rage,  and  swore  he 
would  for  ever  quit  the  country,  since  he  found  people  were 
not  satisfied  with  protecting  and  saving  the  rogues  they  had 
under  themselves,  but  must  also  show  that  they  could  and 
would  oblige  others  to  have  rogues  under  them  whether  they 
would  or  no.” 

Here  Counsellor  Robbins  certainly  loses  that  greatness  which 
has  distinguished  him  iu  his  .former  attack  on  Freeny;  the 
Counsellor  is  defeated  and  loses  his  temper.  Like  Napoleon, 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


147 


he  is  unequal  to  reverses : in  adverse  fortune  bis  presence  of 
mind  deserts  him. 

But  what  call  had  he  to  be  in  a passion  at  all?  It  ma}-  be 
very  well  for  a man  to  be  in  a rage  because  he  is  disappointed 
of  his  pre}" : so  is  the  liawk,  when  the  dove  escapes,  in  a rage  ; 
but  let  us  retlect  that,  liad  Counsellor  Robbins  had  his  will,  two 
honest  fellows  would  have  been  hanged ; and  so  let  us  be 
heartily  thankful  that  he  was  disappointed,  and  that  these  men 
were  acquitted  by  a jury  of  their  countiymeu.  ^yhat  right  had 
the  Counsellor,  forsooth,  to  interfere  with  their  verdict?  Not 
against  Irish  juries  at  least  docs  the  old  satire  apply,  “And 
culprits  hang  that  jurymen  may  dine?”  At  Kilkenny,  on  the 
contrary,  the  jurymen  starve  in  order  that  the  culprits  might 
be  saved  — a noble  and  humane  act  of  self-denial. 

In  another  case,  stern  justice,  and  the  law  of  self-preserva- 
tion, conjpcllcd  Mr.  Freeny  to  take  a very  different  course  with 
respect  to  one  of  his  ex-associates.  In  the  fonner  instance  we 
have  seen  him  pawning  his  watch,  giving  up  tankard,  table- 
spoons— all,  for  his  suffering  friends  ; here  we  have  his  method 
of  dealing  with  traitors. 

One  of  his  friends,  b}^  the  name  of  Dooling,  was  taken 
prisoner,  and  condemned  to  be  hanged,  which  gave  Mr. 
hh’eeny,  he  says,  “a  great  shock;”  but  presently  this  Doo- 
ling’s  fears  were  worked  upon  b}’  some  traitors  within  the  gaol, 
and  — 

“ He  then  consented  to  discover ; but  I had  a friend  in  gaol 
at  the  same  time,  one  Patrick  Ileal}',  who  daily  insinuated  to 
him  that  it  was  of  no  use  or  advantage  to  him  to  discover  any- 
thing, as  he  received  sentence  of  death ; and  that,  after  he  had 
made  a discover}',  they  would  leave  him  as  he  was,  without 
troubling  themselves  about  a reprieve.  But  notwithstanding, 
he  told  the  gentlemen  that  there  was  a man  hlind  o f an  eye  who 
had  a hay-mare^  that  lived  at  the  other  side  of  Thomastown 
bridge,  whom  he  assured  them  would  be  very  troublesome  in 
that  neighborhood  after  his  death.  Ayiien  Ilealy  discovered 
what  he  told  the  gentlemen,  he  one  night  took  an  opportunity 
and  made  Dooling  fuddled,  and  prevailed  upon  him  to  take  his 
oath  he  never  would  give  the  least  hint  about  me  any  more. 
He  also  told  him  the  penalty  that  attended  infringing  upon  his 
oath  — but  more  especially  as  he  was  at  that  time  near  his  end 
— which  had  the  desired  effect ; for  he  never  mentioned  my 
name,  nor  even  anything  relative  to  me,”  and  so  went  out  of 
the  world  repenting  of  his  meditated  treason. 

What  further  exploits  Mr.  Freeny  performed  maybe  learned 


148 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


by  the  curious  in  his  history : they  are  all,  it  need  scarcely  be 
said,  of  a similar  nature  to  that  noble  action  which  has  already 
been  described.  His  escapes  from  his  enemies  were  marvel- 
lous ; his  courage  in  facing  them  equally  great.  He  is  attacked  | 

by  whole  “ armies,”  through  which  he  makes  his  way  ; wounded,  i 

he  lies  in  the  woods  for  days  together  with  three  bullets  in  his 
leg,  and  in  this  condition  manages  to  escape  several  “ armies” 
that  have  been  marched  against  him.  He  is  supposed  to  be 
dead,  or  travelling  on  the  continent,  and  suddenly  makes  his 
appearance  in  his  old  haunts,  advertising  his  arrival  by  robbing 
ten  men  on  the  highwa}^  in  a single  da}^  And  so  terrible  is 
his  courage,  or  so  popular  his  manners,  that  he  describes  scores 
of  laborers  looking  on  while  his  exploits  were  performed,  and 
not  affording  the  least  aid  to  the  roadside  traveller  whom  he 
vanquished. 

But  numbers  always  prevail  in  the  end  : what  could  Leonidas 
himself  do  against  an  army  ? The  gallant  band  of  brothers  led 
by  Freeny  were  so  pursued  by  the  indefatigable  Robbins  and 
his  m^'rmidons,  that  there  was  no  hope  left  for  them,  and  the 
Captain  saw  that  he  must  succumb. 

He  reasoned,  however,  with  himself  (with  his  usual  keen 
logic),  and  said  : My  men  must  fall,  — the  world  is  too  strong 

for  us,  and,  to-day,  or  to-morrow  — it  matters  scarcely  when 
— they  must  yield.  Tliey  will  be  hanged  for  a certainty,  and 
thus  will  disappear  the  noblest  company  of  knights  the  world 
has  ever  seen. 

“ But  as  they  will  certainly  be  hanged,  and  no  power  of 
mine  can  save  them,  is  it  necessary  that  I should  follow  them 
too  to  the  tree?  and  will  James  Bulger’s  fate  be  a whit  more 
agreeable  to  him,  because  James  Freeny  dangles  at  his  side? 

To  suppose  so,  would  be  to  admit  that  he  was  actuated  by  a 
savage  feeling  of  revenge,  which  I know  belongs  not  to  his 
generous  nature.” 

In  a word,  IMr.  Freen}*  resolved  to  turn  king’s  evidence  ; 
for  though  he  swore  (in  a communication  with  the  implacable 
Robbins)  that  he  would  rather  die  than  betray  Bulger,  yet 
when  the  Counsellor  stated  that  he  must  then  die,  Freeny 
saj's,  “ I promised  to  submit,  and  understood  that  Bulger  should 
he  set.’^ 

According!}'  some  days  afterwards  (although  the  Captain 
carefully  avoids  mentioning  that  he  had  met  his  friend  with  any 
such  intentions  as  those  indicated  in  the  last  paragraph)  he  and 
IMr.  Bulger  came  together : and,  strangel}'  enough,  it  was 
agreed  that  the  one  was  to  sleep  while  the  other  kept  watch ; 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


149 


and,  while  thus  employed,  the  enem}’^  came  upon  them.  But 
let  Freeii}’  describe  for  himself  the  last  passages  of  his  his- 
tory : 

“We  then  went  to  Welsh’s  house,  wdth  a view  not  to  make 
an}"  delay  there  ; but,  taking  a glass  extraordinary  after  supper, 
Bulger  fell  asleep.  Welsh,  in  the  meantime,  told  me  his  house 
was  the  safest  place  I could  get  in  that  neighborhood,  and 
while  I remained  there  I would  be  very  safe,  provided  that  no 
person  knew  of  my  coming  there  (I  had  not  acquainted  him 
that  Breen  knew  of  my  coming  that  way).  I told  AVelsh  that, 
as  Bulger  w"as  asleep,  I would  not  go  to  bed  till  morning : upon 
which  Welsh  and  I stayed  up  all  night,  and  in  the  morning 
Welsh  said  that  he  and  his  wife  had  a call  to  Callen,  it  being 
market-day.  About  nine  o’clock  I Avent  and  awoke  Bulger, 
desiring  him  to  get  up  and  guard  me  whilst  I slept,  as  I guarded 
him  all  night ; he  said  he  would,  and  then  I went  to  bed  charg- 
ing him  to  watch  close,  for  fear  Ave  should  be  surprised.  I put 
my  blunderbuss  and  tAvo  cases  of  pistols  under  my  head,  and 
soon  fell  fast  asleep.  In  tAvo  hours  after  the  servant-girl  of 
the  house,  seeing  an  enemy  coming  into  the  yard,  ran  up  to 
the  room  Avhere  Ave  w"ere,  and  said  that  there  were  an  hundred 
men  coming  into  the  yard ; upon  Avhich  Bulger  immediately 
awoke  me,  and,  taking  up  my  blunderbuss,  he  fired  a shot 
toAvards  the  door,  which  w"Ounded  Mr.  Burgess,  one  of  the 
sheriffs  of  Kilkenny,  of  Avhich  wound  he  died.  They  concluded 
to  set  the  house  on  fire  about  us,  which  they  accordingly  did  ; 
upon  which  I took  my  fusee  in  one  hand,  and  a pistol  in  the 
other,  and  Bulger  did  the  like,  and  as  we  came  out  of  the  door, 
Ave  fired  on  both  sides,  imagining  it  to  be  the  best  method  of 
dispersing  the  enemy,  aaRo  were  on  both  sides  of  the  door.  We 
got  through  them,  but  they  fired  after  us,  and  as  Bulger  was 
leaping  over  a ditch  he  received  a shot  in  the  small  of  the  leg, 
AAdiich  rendered  him  incapable  of  running ; but,  getting  into  a 
field,  where  I had  the  ditch  between  me  and  the  enemy,  I still 
Avalked  slowly  with  Bulger,  till  I thought  the  enemy  were  within 
shot  of  the  ditch,  and  then  AAdieeled  back  to  the  ditch  and  pre- 
sented my  fusee  at  them.  They  all  drew  back  and  w'ent  for 
their  horses  to  ride  round,  as  the  field  was  wide  and  open,  and 
without  cover  except  the  ditch.  When  I discovered  their  inten- 
tion I stood  in  the  middle  of  the  field,  and  one  of  the  gentle- 
men’s servants  (there  were  fourteen  in  number)  rode  foremost 
towards  me  ; upon  which  I told  the  son  of  a coward  I believed 
he  had  no  more  than  five  pounds  a year  from  his  master,  and 
that  I would  put  him  in  such  a condition  that  his  master  would 


150 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


not  maintain  him  afterv/ards.  To  which  he  answered  that  he 
had  no  view  of  doing  us  any  harm,  but  that  he  was  commanded 
1)3'  his  master  to  ride  so  near  us  ; and  then  immediatelv'  rode 
back  to  the  enem3^,  who  were  coming  towards  him.  The3' 
almost  within  shot  of  us,  and  1 observed  they  intended  to  sur- 
round us  in  tlie  field,  and  prevent  me  from  having  aii3^  recourse 
CO  the  ditch  again.  Bulger  was  at  this  time  so  bad  with  the 
wound,  that  he  could  not  go  one  step  without  leaning  on  m3^ 
slioulder.  At  length,  seeing  the  enem3'  coming  within  shot  of 
me,  I laid  down  1113'  fusee  and  stripped  off  1113^  coat  and  waist- 
coar,  and  running  towards  them,  cried  out,  ‘You  sons  of  cow- 
ards, coiiie  on,  and  I Will  blow  your  brains  out!’  On  which 
tlie3’  returned  back,  and  then  I walked  eas3'  to  the  place  where 
1 left  my  clothes,  and  put  them  on,  and  Bulger  and  I walked 
leisurely  some  distance  further.  The  enem3'  came  a second 
time,  and  I occasioned  them  to  draw  back  as  before,  and  then 
we  walked  to  Lord  D3^sart’s  deer-park  wall.  I got  up  the  wall 
and  helped  Buiger  up.  The  enem3g  who  still  pursued  us, 
though  not  within  shot,  seeing  us  on  the  wall,  one  of  them  fired 
a random  shot  at  us  to  no  purpose.  We  got  safe  over  the  wall, 
and  went  from  thence  into  my  Lord  D3'sart’s  wood,  where 
Bulger  said  he  would  remain,  thinking  it  a safe  place  ; but  I 
told  him  he  would  be  safer  anywhere  else,  for  the  army  of 
Kilkenny  and  Callen  would  be  soon  about  the  wood,  and  that 
he  would  be  taken  if  he  stayed  there.  Besides,  as  I was  veiy 
averse  to  betraying  him  at  all,  I could  not  bear  the  thoughts  of 
his  being  taken  in  my  company  by  any  party  but  Lord  Garrick’s. 
I then  brought  him  about  half  a mile  beyond  the  wood,  and  left 
him  there  in  a brake  of  briars,  and  looking  towards  the  wood  I 
saw  it  surrounded  by  the  army.  Tliere  was  a cabin  near  that 
})lace  where  I fixed  Bulger : he  said  he  would  go  to  it  at  night, 
and  he  would  send  for  some  of  his  friends  to  take  care  of  him. 
It  was  then  almost  two  o’clock,  and  we  were  four  hours  going 
to  that  place,  which  was  about  two  miles  from  Welsh’s  house. 
Imagining  that  there  were  spies  fixed  on  all  the  fords  and  I33'- 
roads  between  that  place  and  the  mountain,  I went  towards  the 
bounds  of  the  countv  Tipperaiy,  where  I arrived  about  nightfall, 
and  going  to  a cabin,  I asked  whether  there  was  aiy'  drink  sold 
near  that  place?  The  man  of  the  house  said  there  was  not; 
and  as  I was  veiy  much  fatigued,  1 sat  down,  and  there  re- 
freshed m3'self  with  what  the  cabin  afforded.  I then  begged  of 
the  man  to  sell  me  a pair  of  his  brogues  and  stockings,  as  I 
was  then  barefooted,  which  he  accordingly  did.  I quitted  the 
house,  went  through  Kinsheenah  and  Poulacoppal,  and  having 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


151 


so  iiiiiiiy  thorns  in  feet,  I was  obliged  to  go  barefooted,  and 
went  to  Sleedelagli,  and  through  the  mountains,  till  1 came 
within  four  miles  of  Waterford,  and  going  into  a cabin,  tlie 
man  of  the  house  took  eighteen  thorns  out  of  the  soles  of  1113' 
feet,  and  1 remained  in  and  about  that  place  for  some  time, 
after. 

“ In  the  meantime  a friend  of  mine  was  told  that  it  was 
impossible  for  me  to  esca[)e  death,  for  Bulger  had  turned 
against  me,  and  that  his  friends  and  Stack  were  resolved  upon 
my  life  ; but  the  person  who  told  1113'  friend  so,  also  said,  that 
if  my  friend  would  set  Bulger  and  Breen,  I might  get  a pardon 
through  the  Earl  of  Carrick’s  means  and  Counsellor  Robbins’s 
interest.  M3’  friend  said  that  he  luas  sure  I would  not  consent 
to  suck  a tiling^  but  the  best  ivag  was  to  do  it  unknown  to  me  ; and 
1113’  friend  accordingl3'  set  Bulgei‘,  who  was  taken  1)3’  the  Earl 
of  Carrick  and  his  party,  and  jMr.  Fitzgerald,  and  six  of  Coun- 
sellor Robbins’s  soldiers,  and  committed  to  Kilkenn3’  gaol.  He 
was  three  days  in  gaol  before  1 heard  he  was  taken,  being  at 
that  time  twent3'  miles  distant  from  the  neighl>orhood  ; nor  did 
1 hear  from  him  or  see  him  since  1 left  him  near  Lord  D3^sart’s 
wood,  till  a friend  came  and  told  me  it  was  to  preserve  m3’  life 
and  to  fullil  1113’  articles  that  Bulger  was  taken.” 

“ Finding  1 was  sus[)ected,  1 withdrew  to  a neighboring 
wood  and  concealed  myself  there  till  night,  and  then  went  to 
Ballydutf  to  Mr.  Fitzgerald  and  surrendered  myself  to  him,  till 
I could  write  to  my  Lord  Carrick  ; which  I did  immediately, 
and  gave  him  an  account  of  what  I escaped,  or  that  I would 
have  gone  to  Ballyh’iich  and  surr.endered  m3’self  there  to  him, 
and  begged  his  lordship  to  send  a guard  for  me  to  conduct  me 
to  his  house  — which  he  did,  and  I remained  there  for  a few 
days. 

‘‘He  then  sent  me  to  Kilkenny  gaol;  and  at  the  summer 
assizes  following,  James  Bulger,  Patrick  Hacket  otherwise 
Bristeen,  Martin  Millea,  John  Stack,  Felix  Donell3’,  Edmund 
Kemi3’,  and  James  Larras3’  were  tried,  convicted,  and  exe- 
cuted ; and  at  spring  assizes  following,  George  Roberts  was 
tried  for  receiving  Colonel  Palliser’s  gold  watch  knowing  it  to 
be  stolen,  but  was  acquitted  on  account  of  exceptions  taken  to 
m3^  pardon,  which  prevented  my  giving  evidence.  At  the 
following  assizes,  when  I had  got  a new  pardon,  Roberts  was 
again  tried  for  receiving  the  tankard,  ladle,  and  silver  spoons 
from  me  knowing  them  to  be  stolen,  and  was  convicted 
and  executed.  At  the  same  assizes,  John  Redd}’,  my  in- 


152 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


structor,  and  Martin  Millea,  were  also  tried,  convicted,  and 
executed.” 

And  so  they  were  all  hanged  : James  Bulger,  Patrick  Racket 
or  Bristeen,  Martin  Millea,  John  Stack  and  Felix  Donelly,  and 
Edmund  Kenii}'  and  James  Larrasy,  with  Roberts  who  received 
the  Colonel’s  watcli,  the  tankard,  ladle,  and  the  silver  spoons, 
were  all  convicted  and  executed.  Their  names  drop  natu- 
rally into  blank  verse.  It  is  hard  upon  poor  George  Roberts 
too : for  the  watch  he  received  was  no  doubt  in  the  veiy  inex- 
pressibles which  the  Captain  himself  took  from  the  Colonel’s 
head. 

As  for  the  Captain  himself,  he  says  that,  on  going  out  of 
gaol.  Counsellor  Robbins  and  Lord  Carrick  proposed  a sub- 
scription for  him  — in  which,  strangely,  the  gentlemen  of  the 
county  would  not  join,  and  so  that  scheme  came  to  nothing ; 
and  so  he  published  his  memoirs  in  order  to  get  himself  a little 
money.  Man}'  a man  has  taken  up  the  pen  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances of  necessity. 

But  what  became  of  Captain  Freeii}'-  afterwards,  does  not 
appear.  Was  he  an  honest  man  ever  after?  Was  he  hanged 
for  subsequent  misdemeanors?  It  matters  little  to  him  now; 
though,  perhaps,  one  cannot  help  feeling  a little  wish  that  the 
latter  fate  may  have  befallen  him. 

Whatever  his  death  was,  however,  the  history  of  his  life  has 
been  one  of  the  most  popular  books  ever  known  in  this  country. 
It  formed  the  class-book  in  those  rustic  universities  which  are 
now  rapidly  disappearing  from  among  the  hedges  of  Ireland. 
And  lest  any  English  reader  should,  on  account  of  its  lowness, 
quarrel  with  the  introduction  here  of  this  strange  picture  of  wild 
courage  and  daring,  let  him  be  reconciled  by  the  moral  at  the 
end,  which,  in  the  persons  of  Bulger  and  the  rest,  hangs  at  the 
beam  before  Kilkenny  gaol. 


I'llE  IIIISII  SKETCH  BOOK. 


153 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

MOKE  UAIN  IN  GALWAY  — A WALK  TIIEKE  — AND  THE  SECOND 
GALWAY  night’s  ENTERTAINMENT. 


Seven  liills  lias  Komo,  seven  mouths  lias  Nilus’  stream. 

Around  the  Pole  seven  hurniu"  planets  gleam. 

Twice  equal  these  is  Galway,  CYmnaught’s  Home: 

Twice  seven  illustrious  tribes  here  find  their  home.* 

Twice  seven  fair  towers  the  city’s  ramparts  guard: 

Each  house  within  is  built  of  marble  hard. 

With  lofty  turret  flanked,  twice  seven  the  gates, 

Through  twice  seven  bridges  water  permeates. 

In  the  high  church  are  twice  seven  altars  raised, 

At  each  a holy  saint  and  patron’s  praised. 

Twice  seven  the  convents  dedicate  to  heaven, — 

Seven  for  the  female  sex  — for  godly  fathers  seven.”  t 

IlaATiig  read  in  Ilardiinan’s  History  the  quaint  inscription  in 
Irish  Latin,  of  wliieli  the  above  lines  are  a version,  and  looked 
admiringly  at  the  old  [dans  of  Galway  which  are  to  be  found  in 
the  same  work,  I was  in  hojies  to  have  seen  in  the  town  some 
considerable  remains  of  its  former  s[)lendor,  in  spite  of  a warn- 
ing to  the  contrarv  which  the  learned  historiogra[)her  gives. 

The  old  city  certainly  has  some  relics  of  its  former  stateli- 
ness ; and,  indeed,  is  the  on\y  town  in  Ireland  I have  seen, 
where  an  antiquary  can  find  much  subject  for  study,  or  a lover 
of  the  picturesque  an  occasion  for  using  his  pencil.  It  is  a wild, 

* By  the  help  of  an  Alexandrine,  the  names  of  these  famous  families 
may  also  be  accommodated  to  verse. 

“ Athey,  Blake,  Bodkin,  Browne,  Beane,  Dorsey,  Frinche, 

Joyce,  Morech,  Skereth,  Fonte,  Kirowan,  Martin,  Lynche.’’ 

t If  the  rude  old  verses  are  not  very  remarkable  in  quality,  in  quanU'tii 
they  are  still  more  deficient,  and  take  some  dire  liberties  with  the  laws  laid 
down  in  the  Gradus  and  the  Grammar  : 

“Septem  ornant  montes  Romam,  septem  ostia  Nilum, 

Tot  rutilis  stellis  splende.t  in  axe  Polus. 

Galyia,  Polo  Niloque  bis  a^quas.  Roma  Conachtge, 

Bis  septem  illustres  has  colit  ilia  tribus. 

Bis  urbis  septem  defendunt  moenia  turres, 

Intus  et  en  duro  est  marraore  quaeque  domus. 

Bis  septem  portae  sunt,  castra  et  culmina  circum, 

Per  totidem  pontum  jjermeat  iinda  vias. 

Principe  bis  septem  fulgent  altaria  templo, 

Quaevis  patronae  est  ara  dicata  suo, 

Et  septem  sacrata  Deo  coenobia,  patrum 
Foeminei  et  sexus,  tot  pia  tecta  tenet,” 


154 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


fierce,  and  most  original  old  town.  Joyce’s  Castle  in  one  of  the 
principal  streets,  a huge  square  gray  tower,  with  many  carvings 
and  ornaments,  is  a gallant  relic  of  its  old  da}^s  of  prosperity, 
and  gives  one  an  awful  idea  of  the  tenements  which  the  other 
families  inhabited,  and  which  are  designed  in  the  interesting 
plate  which  Mr.  Hardiman  gives  in  his  work.  The  Collegiate 
Church,  too,  is  still  extant,  without  its  fourteen  altars,  and 
looks  to  be  something  between  a church  and  a castle,  and  as  if 
it  should  be  served  by  Templars  with  sword  and  helmet  in  place 
of  mitre  and  crosier.  The  old  houses  in  the  Main  Street  are 
like  fortresses : the  windows  look  into  a court  within  ; there  is 
but  a small  low  door,  and  a few  grim  windows  peering  suspi- 
ciously into  the  street. 

Then  there  is  Lombard  Street,  otherwise  called  Headman’s 
Lane,  with  a raw- head  and  cross-bones  and  a “ memento  mori  ” 
ov^er  the  door  where  the  dreadful  tragedy  of  the  Lynches  was 
acted  in  1493.  If  Galway  is  the  Rome  of  Connaught,  James 
Lynch  Fitzstephcn,  the  Ma}'or,  ma}'  be  considered  as  the  Lucius 
Junius  Brutus  thereof.  Lynch  had  a son  who  went  to  Spain  as 
master  of  one  of  his  father’s  shi[)s,  and  being  of  an  extravagant, 
wild  turn,  there  contracted  debts,  and  drew  bills,  and  alarmed 
Iiis  father’s  correspondent,  who  sent  a clerk  and  nephew  of  his 
own  back  in  young  Lynch’s  ship  to  Galway  to  settle  accounts. 
On  the  lifteenth  day,  young  L3'nch  threw  the  Spaniard  over- 
board. C'oming  back  to  his  own  country,  he  reformed  his  life 
a little,  and  was  on  the  jjoint  of  marrying  one  of  the  Blakes, 
Burkes,  Bodkins,  or  others,  when  a seaman  who  had  sailed  with 
him,  being  on  the  point  of  death,  confessed  the  murder  in  which 
he  had  been  a participator. 

Hereon  the  father,  who  was  chief  magistrate  of  the  town, 
tried  his  son,' and  sentenced  him  to  death;  and  when  the  clan 
Lynch  rose  in  a body  to  rescue  the  young  man,  and  avert  such 
a disgrace  from  their  famiH.  it  is  said  that  Fitzstephen  Lynch 
hung  the  culprit  with  his  own  hand.  A tragedv  called  “ The 
AVarden  of  Galway”  has  been  written  on  the  subject,  and  was 
acted  a few  nights  before  my  arrival. 

44ie  waters  of  Lough  Corrib,  which  “ permeate”  under  the 
bridges  of  the  town,  go  rushing  and  roaring  to  the  sea  with  a 
noise  and  eagerness  only  known  in  Galway  ; and  along  the 
l)anks  you  see  all  sorts  of  strange  figures  washing  all  sorts  of 
wonderful  rags,  with  red  petticoats  and  redder  shanks  standing 
in  the  stream.  Pigs  are  in  everv  street : the  whole  town  shrieks 
with  them.  There  are  numbers  of  idlers  on  the  bridges,  thou- 
sands in  the  streets,  humming  and  swarming  in  and  out  of  dark 


THE  llllSil  SKETCH  BOOK. 


155 


old  ruinous  houses  ; congregated  round  numberless  apple-stalls, 
nail-stalls,  bottle-stalls,  pigsfoot-stalls  ; in  queer  old  shops,  that 
look  to  be  two  centuries  old  ; loitering  about  warehouses,  ruined 
or  not ; looking  at  the  washerwomen  washing  in  the  river,  or  at 
the  lish-donke3’s,  or  at  the  potato-stalls,  or  at  a vessel  coming 
into  the  (pia^y,  or  at  the  boats  })utti ng  out  to  sea. 

That  boat  at  the  (imqv,  bv  the  little  old  gate,  is  bound  for 
Arranmore  ; and  one  next  to  it  has  a tVeight  ol‘  passengers 
for  the  clilfs  of  Mohir  on  the  Clare  coast ; and  as  the  sketch  is 
taken,  a hundred  of  peoi)le  have  sto[)ped  in  the  street  to  look 
on,  and  are  buzzing  behind  in  Irish,  telling  the  little  bo3s  in 
that  language  — who  will  persist  in  })lacing  themselves  exaetl3' 
ill  the  front  of  the  designer  — to  get  out  of  his  way  : which  thc3" 
do  for  some  time  ; but  at  length  curiosity  is  so  intense  that  you 
are  entirel3'  hemmed  in  and  the  view  rendered  quite  invisible. 
A sailor’s  wife  comes  iqi  — who  speaks  English  — with  a very 
wistful  face,  and  begins  to  hint  that  them  black  pictures  are 
veiy  bad  likenesses,  and  verv  dear  too  for  a poor  woman,  and 
how  much  would  a painted  one  cost  does  his  honor  think? 
And  she  has  her  husband  that  is  going  to  sea  to  the  AVest 
Indies  to-morrow,  and  she’d  give  anything  to  have  a picture  of 
him.  8o  I made  bold  to  oher  to  take  his  likeness  for  nothing. 
But  he  never  came,  except  one  da3'  at  dinner,  and  not  at  all  on 
the  next  day,  though  I stayed  on  purpose  to  accommodate  him. 
It  is  true  that  it  was  pouring  with  rain  ; and  as  English  water- 
proof cloaks  are  not  waterproof  in  Ireland^  the  traveller  who  has 
but  one  coat  must  of  necessit3’  respect  it,  and  had  better  sta3' 
where  he  is,  unless  he  prefers  to  go  to  bed  while  he  has  his 
clothes  dried  at  the  next  stage. 

The  houses  in  the  fashionable  street  where  the  club-house 
stands  (a  strong  building,  with  an  agreeable  Old  Bailey  look), 
have  the  appearance  of  so  manv  little  New’gates.  The  Cath- 
olic chapels  are  numerous,  unfinished,  and  ugl3x  Great  ware- 
houses and  mills  rise  up  by  the  stream,  or  in  the  midst  of 
unfinished  streets  here  and  there ; and  handsome  convents 
with  their  gardens,  justice-houses,  barracks,  and  hospitals 
adorn  the  large,  poor,  bustling,  rough-and-read3^-looking  town. 
A man  who  sells  hunting-wdiips,  gunpowder,  guns,  fishing- 
tackle,  and  brass  and  iron  ware,  has  a few  books  on  his  counter  ; 
and  a lad3"  in  a by-street,  who  carries  on  the  profession  of  a 
milliner,  ekes  out  her  stock  in  a similar  wa3x  But  there  were 
no  regular  book-shops  that  I saw,  and  when  it  came  on  to  rain 
I had  no  resource  but  the  hedge-school  volumes  again.  They, 
like  Patrick  Spelman’s  sign  (which  was  faithfull}*  copied  in  the 


156 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


town),  present  some  verj"  rude  flowers  of  poetry  and  “enter- 
tainment ” of  an  exceedingly  humble  sort ; but  such  shelter  is 
not  to  be  despised  when  no  better  is  to  be  had  : nay,  possibly 
its  novelty  nia}-  be  piquant  to  some  readers,  as  an  admirer  of 
Shakspeare  will  occasional!}^  condescend  to  listen  to  Mr.  Punch, 
or  an  epicure  to  content  himself  with  a homely  dish  of  beans 
and  bacon. 

When  Mr.  Kilroy’s  waiter  has  drawn  the  window  curtains, 
brought  the  hot- water  for  the  whiskej'-negus,  a pipe  and  a 
“ screw”  of  tobacco,  and  two  huge  old  candlesticks  that  were 
plated  once,  the  audience  maj^  be  said  to  be  assembled,  and 
after  a little  overture  performed  on  the  pipe,  the  second  night’s 
entertainment  begins  with  the  historical  tragedy  of  the  “ Battle 
of  A ugh  rim.” 

Though  it  has  found  its  wa}"  to  the  West  of  Ireland,  the 
“Battle  of  Aughrim”  is  evidently  by  a Protestant  author,  a 
great  enemy  of  popery  and  wooden  shoes  : both  of  which  prin- 
ciples incarnate  in  the  person  of  Saint  Ruth,  the  French  Gen- 
eral commanding  the  troops  sent  by  Louis  XIV.  to  the  aid  of 
James  II.,  meet  with  a woful  downfall  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
piece.  It  must  have  been  written  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne, 
judging  from  some  loyal  compliments  which  are  paid  to  that 
sovereign  in  the  play;  which  is  also  modelled  upon  “ Cato.” 

The  “ Battle  of  Aughrim  ” is  written  from  beginning  to  end 
in  decas3dlabic  verse  of  the  richest  sort ; and  introduces  us  to 
the  chiefs  of  William’s  and  James’s  armies.  On  the  English 
side  we  have  Baron  Ginkell,  three  Generals,  and  two  Colonels ; 
on  the  Irish,  Monsieur  Saint  Ruth,  two  Generals,  two  Colonels, 
and  an  English  gentleman  of  fortune,  a volunteer,  and  son  of 
no  less  a person  than  Sir  Edmnndbuiy  Godfre}-. 

There  are  two  ladies — Jemima,  the  Irish  Colonel  Talbot’s 
daugliter,  in  love  with  Godfrey  ; and  Lucinda,  lady  of  Colonel 
Herbert,  in  love  with  her  lord.  And  the  deep  nature  of  the 
tragedy  may  be  imagined  when  it  is  stated  that  Colonel  Tal- 
bot is  killed.  Colonel  Herbert  is  killed,  Sir  Charles  Godfrey  is 
killed,  and  Jemima  commits  suicide,  as  resolved  not  to  survive 
her  adorer.  St.  Ruth  is  also  killed,  and  the  remaining  Irish 
heroes  are  taken  prisoners  or  run  away.  Among  the  super- 
numeraries there  is  likewise  a dreadful  slaughter. 

The  author,  however,  though  a Protestant  is  an  Irishman 
(there  are  peculiarities  in  his  pronunciation  which  belong  only 
to  that  nation),  and  as  far  as  courage  goes,  he  allows  the  two 
parties  to  be  pretty  equal.  The  scene  opens  with  a martial 
sound  of  kettle-drums  and  trumpets  in  the  Irish  camp,  near 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  HOOK. 


157 


Athlone.  That  town  is  l^osiogod  by  Ginkeil,  and  Monsieur 
St.  Ruth  (despising  his  eneni}’  with  a confidence  often  fatal  to 
Generals)  meditates  an  attack  on  the  besiegers’  lines,  if,  by  an}" 
chance,  the  besieged  garrison  be  not  in  a condition  to  drive 
them  off.  After  discoursing  on  the  posture  of  affairs,  and  let- 
ting General  Sarsfield  and  Colonel  O’Neil  know  his  hearty 
contempt  of  the  fhiglish  and  their  General,  all  parties,  after 
protestations  of  patriotism,  indulge  in  hopes  of  the  downfall  of 
AVilliam.  St.  Ruth  says  he  will  drive  the  wolves  and  lions’ 
cubs  away.  O’Neil  declares  he  scorns  the  revolution,  and,  like 
great  Cato,  smiles  at  persecution.  Sarsfield  longs  for  the  day 
when  our  Monks  and  Jesuits  shall  return,  and  holy  incense 
on  our  altars  burn.”  When 

“ Enter  a Post. 

“Post.  With  important  news  I from  Athlone  am  sent, 

Be  ])leased  to  lead  me  to  the  General’s  tent. 

Behold  the  General  there.  Your  message  tell. 

“ St.  Rath.  Declare  your  message.  Are  our  friends  all  well  ? 

“ Post.  I’ardon  me,  sir,  the  fatal  news  I bring 
Like  vulture’s  poison  eveiy  heart  sliall  sting. 

Athlone  is  lost  without  your  timely  aid. 

At  six  this  morning  an  assault  was  made, 

When,  under  shelter  of  the  British  cannon. 

Their  grenadiers  in  armor  took  the  Shannon, 

Led  by  brave  Captain  Sandys,  who  ivith  fame 
Plunged  to  his  middle  in  the  rapid  stream. 

He  led  them  througli,  and  with  undaunted  ire 
He  gained  the  bank  in  spite  of  all  our  fire ; 

Being  bravely  followed  f>y  his  grenadiers 
Though  bullets  flew  like  hail  about  tlieir  ears. 

And  by  this  time  they  enter  uncontrolled. 

“ St.  Ruth.  Dare  all  the  force  of  England  be  so  bold 
T’  attempt  to  storm  so  brave  a town,  when  I 
With  all  Hibernia’s  sons  of  war  am  nigli  1 
Return  : and  if  the  Britons  dare  pursue, 

Tell  them  St.  Ruth  is  near,  and  that  ivill  do. 

“ Post.  Your  aid  would  do  much  better  tlian  your  name. 

“ St.  Ruth.  Bear  back  this  answer,  friend,  from  whence  you  came. 

[Exit  Post.” 


The  picture  of  brave  Saiiclys,  “ who  with  fame  plunged  to 
his  middle  in  the  rapid  strame,”  is  not  a bad  image  on  the  part 
of  the  Post;  and  St.  Ruth’s  reply,  “Tell  them  St.  Ruth  is 
near,  and  that  will  do  f characteristic  of  the  vanity  of  his  nation. 
But  Sarsfield  knows  Britons  better,  and  pays  a merited  com' 
pliment  to  their  valor : 

“ Sars.  Send  speedy  succors  and  their  fate  prevent, 

You  know  not  yet  what  Britons  dare  attempt. 


158 


I know  the  English  fortitude  is  such, 

To  boast  of  nothing,  though  they  hazard  much. 
No  force  on  earth  their  fury  can  repel, 

Nor  would  they  fly  from  ail  the  devils  in  hell. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Another  officer  arrives  : Athlone  is  really  taken,  St.  Ruth  gives 
orders  to  retreat  to  Aughrim,  and  Sarsfield,  in  a rage,  first  chal- 
lenges him,  and  then  vows  he  will  quit  the  army.  “ A gleam  of 
horror  does  1113*  vitals  damp'"  says  the  Frenchman  (in  a figure 
of  speech  more  remarkable  for  vigor  than  logic)  : “ I fear  Lord 
Lucan  has  forsook  the  camp  ! ” But  not  so  : after  a momen- 
tary indignation,  Sarsfield  returns  to  his  dut}’,  and  ere  long  is 
reconciled  with  his  vain  and  vacillating  chief. 

And  now  the  love-intrigue  begins.  Godfre}’  enters,  and 
states  Sir  Chaifies  Godfre}’  is  his  lawful  name : he  is  an  Eng- 
lishman, and  was  on  his  wa}^  to  join  Ginckle’s  camp,  when  Jemi- 
ma’s beauty  overcame  him : he  asks  Colonel  Talbot  to  bestow 
on  him  the  lady’s  hand.  The  Colonel  consents,  and  in  Act  II., 
on  the  plain  of  Aughrim,  at  5 o’clock  in  the  morning,  Jemima 
entei’S  and  proclaims  her  love.  The  lovers  have  an  interview, 
which  concludes  b}^  a mutual  confession  of  attachment,  and 
Jemima  says,  Here,  take  1113’  hand.  ’Tis  true  the  gift  is 
small  but  when  I can  I’ll  give  you  heart  and  all.”  The  lines 
show  finel3'  the  agitation  of  the  young  person.  She  meant  to 
sa3’,  Take  my  hearty  but  she  is  longing  to  be  mai  ried  to  him, 
and  the  words  slip  out  as  it  were  unawares.  Godfre3'  cries  in 
raptures  — 

“ Thanks  to  tlie  gods  ! who  such  a present  gave : 

Such  radiant  graces  ne’er  could  man  receive  {resave)  ; 

For  who  on  earth  has  e’er  such  trans])orts  known  1 
What  is  the  Turkish  nionarcli  on  his  throne. 

Hemmed  round  ivitli  ruslij  swords  in  pompous  state  ? 

Amidst  his  court  no  joys  can  l)e  so  great. 

Retire  witli  me,  my  soul,  no  longer  stay 
In  public  view  ! the  General  moves  this  way.” 

’Tis,  indeed,  the  General;  who,  reconciled  with  Sarsfield, 
straightway,  according  to  his  custom,  begins  to  boast  about 
what  he  will  do  : 

“ Thrice  welcome  to  my  heart,  thou  best  of  friend*  I 
The  rock  on  which  our  holy  faith  depends ! 

May  this  our  meeting  as  a tempest  make 
The  vast  foundations  of  Britannia  shake. 

Tear  up  their  orange  plant,  and  overwhelm 
The  strongest  bulwarks  of  the  British  realm  } 

Then  shall  the  Dutch  and  Hanoverian  fall, 

And  James  shall  ride  in  triumph  to  Whitehall  j 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  ROOK. 


159 


Then  to  protect  our  faitli  lie  will  maintain 
An  inquisition  here  like  that  in  Spain. 

“ iSars.  Most  bravely  urged,  my  lord  ! your  skill,  I own, 

Would  he  unparalleled — had  you  saved  Athlone.” 

— “Had  you  saved  Atlilone  ! ” Sarsfield  has  him  there. 
And  the  contest  of  words  might  have  })rovoked  quarrels  still 
more  fatal,  but  alarms  arc  heard  : the  battle  begins,  and  St. 
Ruth  (still  conlident)  goes  to  meet  the  eneni}',  exclaiming, 
“ Athlone  was  sweet,  but  Aughrim  shall  be  sour.”  The  fury 
of  the  Irish  is  redoubled  on  hearing  of  Talbot’s  hei-oie  death: 
the  Colonel’s  eor[>se  is  i)resently  brought  in,  and  to  it  enters 
Jemima,  who  bewails  her  loss  in  the  following  pathetic  terms  ; — ■ 

“ Jemima.  Oh  ! — he  is  dead  ! — my  soul  is  all  on  fire, 

Witness  ye  gods  ! — he  did  with  fame  expire. 

For  Liberty  a saeritiee  was  made, 

And  fell,  like  l’om])ey,  by  some  villain’s  blade. 

There  lies  a breathless  corse,  whose  soul  ne’er  knew 
A thought  but  what  was  always  just  and  true; 

Look  down  from  heaven,  (Jod  of  peace  and  love, 

Waft  him  with  tritnnph  to  the  throne  above; 

And,  O ye  winged  guardians  of  the  skies! 

Tune  your  sweet  har])s  and  sing  his  obsequies  ! 

Good  friends,  staml  off — whilst  I embrace  the  ground 
Whereon  he  lies  — and  bathe  each  mortal  wound 
With  brinish  tears,  that  like  to  torrents  run 
From  these  sad  eyes.  O heavens  ! I’m  undone. 

\ Falls  down  on  the  body. 

“Enter  Sir  Cii.vrles  Godfrey.  lie  raises  her. 

“ Sir  Char.  Why  do  these  precious  eyes  like  fountains  flow, 

To  drown  the  radiant  heaven  that  lies  below  1 
Dry  up  your  tears,  I trust  his  soul  ere  this 
Has  reached  the  mansions  of  eternal  bliss. 

Soldiers  ! bear  lienee  the  body  out  of  sight. 

[They  bear  him  off. 

“Jem.  Oh,  stay  — ye  murderers,  cease  to  kill  me  quite  : 

See  how  he  glares  ! — and  see  again  he  flies  ! 

The  crowds  fly  open,  and  he  mounts  the  skies. 

Oh  ! see  his  blood,  it  shines  refulgent  bright,  ) 

I see  him  yet  — I cannot  lose  him  quite,  > 

But  still  pursue  him  on  — and  — lose  my  sight.”  ) 

The  gradual  disappearance  of  the  Colonel’s  soul  is  now  finelj^ 
indicated,  and  so  is  her  grief : when  showing  the  bod}^  to  Sir 
Charles,  she  sa3’s,  “ Behold  the  mangled  cause  of  all  my 
woes.”  The  sorrow  of  vonth,  however,  is  but  transitory  ; and 
when  her  lover  bids  her  dry  her  gushish  tears,  she  takes  out  her 
pocket-handkerchief  with  the  elasticity  of  youth,  and  consoles 
herself  for  the  father  in  the  husband. 


IGO 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Act  III.  represents  the  English  camp : Ginckle  and  his 
Generals  discourse  ; the  armies  are  engaged.  In  Act  IV.  the 
English  are  worsted  in  spite  of  their  valor,  which  Sarsfielcl 
greatly  describes.  “ View,”  says  he  — 

“ View  how  tlie  foe  like  an  impetuous  flood 

Breaks  through  the  smoke,  the  water,  and  — the  mud!’ 

It  becomes  exceedingl}'  hot.  Colonel  Earles  says  — 

“ In  vain  Jove’s  lightnings  issue  from  the  sky, 

For  death  more  sure  from  British  ensigns  fly. 

Their  messengers  of  death  much  blood  have  spilled. 

And  full  three  hundred  of  the  Irish  killed.” 

A description  of  war  (Herbert)  : — 

“ Now  bloody  colors  wave  in  all  their  pride, 

And  each  proud  hero  does  his  beast  bestride.” 

General  Dorrington’s  description  of  the  fight  is,  if  possible, 
still  more  noble : 

“ Dor.  Haste,  noble  friends,  and  save  your  lives  by  flight. 

For  ’tis  but  madness  if  you  stand  to  fight. 

Our  cavalry  the  battle  have  forsook. 

And  death  appears  in  each  dejected  look ; 

Nothing  but  dread  confusion  can  be  seen. 

For  severed  heads  and  trunks  o’erspread  the  green ; 

The  fields,  the  vales,  the  hills,  and  vanquished  plain. 

For  five  miles  round  are  covered  with  the  slain. 

Death  in  each  quarter  does  the  eye  alarm. 

Here  lies  a leg,  and  there  a shattered  arm. 

There  heads  appear,  which,  cloven  by  mighty  bangs, 

And  severed  quite,  on  either  shoulder  hangs  : 

This  is  the  awful  scene,  my  lords ! Oh,  fly 
The  impending  danger,  for  your  fate  is  nigh.” 

Which  party,  however,  is  to  win  — the  Irish  or  English? 
Their  heroism  is  equal,  and  young  Godfrey  especially,  on  the 
Irish  side,  is  carrying  all  before  him  — when  he  is  interrupted 
in  the  slaughter  by  the  ghost  of  his  father : of  old  Sir  Edmund- 
bury,  whose  monument  we  ma}’  see  in  Westminster  Abbe3% 
Sir  Charles,  at  first,  doubts  about  the  genuineness  of  this  ven- 
erable old  apparition  : and  thus  puts  a case  to  the  ghost:  — 

“ Were  ghosts  in  heaven,  in  heaven  they  there  would  stay. 

Or  if  in  hell,  they  could  not  get  away.” 

A clincher,  certainly,  as  one  would  imagine  ; but  the  ghost 
jumps  over  the  horns  of  the  fancied  dilemma,  by  sa3ung  that 
he  is  not  at  liberty  to  state  where  he  comes  from, 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


161 


“ Ghost.  Where  visions  rest,  or  souls  imprisoned  dwell, 

By  lieaven’s  command,  we  are  forbid  to  tell ; 

But  in  the  obscure  ^rave — where  corpse  decay, 

Moulder  in  dust  and  putrefy  away,  — 

No  rest  is  there;  for  the  immortal  soul 
Takes  its  full  flight  and  flutters  round  the  Pole; 

Sometimes  1 hover  over  the  Euxine  sea  — 

From  Pole  to  Sphere,  until  the  judgment  day  — 

Over  the  Thracian  Bosphorus  do  1 float. 

And  pass  tlie  Stygian  lake  in  Charon’s  boat. 

O’er  Vulcan’s  fiery  court  and  sul})h’rous  cave, 

And  ride  like  Neptune  on  a briny  wave  ; 

List  to  the  blowing  noise  of  Etna’s  flames. 

And  court  tlie  shades  of  Amazonian  dames; 

Then  take  my  flight  uj)  to  tlie  gleamy  moon  : 

Thus  do  I wander  till  the  day  of  doom. 

Proceed  I dare  not,  or  I would  unfold 
A horrid  t-ale  would  make  your  blood  run  cold, 

Chill  all  your  nerves  and  sinews  in  a trice 
Like  whispering  rivulets  congealed  to  ice. 

“ Sh'  Char.  Ere  you  dejiart  me,  ghost,  I here  demand 
You’d  let  me  know  your  last  divine  command!” 

The  ghost  says  that  the  young  man  must  die  in  the  battle  ; that 
it  will  go  ill  for  him  if  he  die  in  the  wrong  cause;  and,  there- 
fore, that  he  had  best  go  over  to  the  Protestants  — which  poor 
Sir  Charles  (not  without  main’  sighs  for  Jemima)  consents  to 
do.  He  goes  olf  then,  saying  — 

“ I’ll  join  my  countrymen,  and  yet  proclaim 
Nassau’s  great  title  to  the  crimson  plain.” 

In  Act  V.,  that  desertion  turns  the  fate  of  the  da}^  Sars- 
field  enters  with  his  sword  drawn,  and  acknowledges  his  fate. 
“ Anghrim,”  exclaims  Lord  Lucan, 

“ Aughrim  is  now  no  more,  St.  Ruth  is  dead. 

And  all  his  guards  are  from  the  battle  fled. 

As  he  rode  down  the  hill  he  met  his  fall. 

And  died  a victim  to  a cannon  ball.” 

And  he  bids  the  Frenchman’s  body  to 

“ lie  like  Porapey  in  his  gore, 

Whose  hero’s  blood  encircles  the  Egyptian  shore.” 

“ Four  hundred  Irish  prisoners  we  have  got,”  exclaims  an 
English  General,  ''  and  seven  thousand  lyeth  on  the  spot.”  In 
fact,  they  are  entirely  discomfited,  and  retreat  off  the  stage 
altogether ; while,  in  the  moment  of  victory,  poor  Sir  Charles 
Godfrey  enters,  wounded  to  death,  according  to  the  old  gentle- 
man’s prophecy.  He  is  racked  by  bitter  remorse  : he  tells  his 

U _ 


1C2 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


love  of  Ills  treachery,  and  declares  “ no  crocodile  was  ever  more 
unjust.”  His  agony  increases,  the  “ optic  nerves  grow  dim  and 
lose  their  sight,  and  all  his  veins  are  now  exhausted  quite  ; ” 
and  he  dies  in  the  arms  of  his  Jemima,  who  stabs  herself  in  the 
usual  way. 

And  so  every  one  being  disposed  of,  the  drums  and  trumpets 
give  a great  peal,  the  audience  huzzas,  and  the  curtain  falls  on 
Ginckle  and  his  friends  exclaiming  — 

“ May  all  the  gods  th’  auspicious  evening  bless, 

Who  crowns  Great  Britain’s  arrums  with  success  ! ” 

And  questioning  the  prosod}",  what  Englishman  will  not  join  in 
the  sentiment? 

In  the  interlude  the  band  (the  pipe)  performs  a favorite  air. 
Jack  the  waiter  and  candle-snuffer  looks  to  see  that  all  is  read}" ; 
and  after  the  dire  business  of  the  tragedy,  comes  in  to  sprinkle 
the  stage  with  water  (and  perhaps  a little  whiskey  in  it).  Thus 
all  things  being  arranged,  the  audience  takes  its  seat  again  and 
the  afterpiece  begins. 

Two  of  the  little  yellow  volumes  purchased  at  Ennis  are 
entitled  “ The  Irish  and  Hibernian  Tales.”  The  former  are 
modern,  and  the  latter  of  an  ancient  sort ; and  so  great  is  the 
superiority  of  the  old  stories  over  the  new,  in  fancy,  dramatic 
interest,  and  humor,  that  one  can’t  help  fancying  Hibernia  must 
have  been  a very  superior  country  to  Ireland. 

These  Hibernian  novels,  too,  are  evidently  intended  for  the 
hedge-school  universities.  They  have  the  old  tricks  and  some 
of  the  old  plots  that  one  has  read  in  many  popular  legends  of 
almost  all  countries,  European  and  P^astern  : successful  cun- 
ning is  the  great  virtue  applauded  ; and  the  heroes  pass  through 
a thousand  wild  extravagant  dangers,  such  as  could  only  have 
been  invented  when  art  was  young  and  faith  was  large.  And 
as  the  honest  old  author  of  the  tales  says  “ they  are  suited  to 
the  meanest  as  well  as  the  highest  capacity,  tending  both  to 
improve  the  fancy  and  enrich  the  mind,”  let  us  conclude  the 
night’s  entertainment  by  reading  one  or  two  of  them,  and 
reposing  after  the  doleful  tragedy  which  has  been  represented. 
The  “ Black  Thief”  is  worthy  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  I think, 
— as  wild  and  odd  as  an  Eastern  tale. 

It  begins,  as  usual,  w"ith  a King  and  Queen  who  lived  once 
on  a time  in  the  South  of  Ireland,  and  had  three  sons  ; but  the 
Queen  being  on  her  death-bed,  and  fancying  her  husband  might 
marry  again,  and  unwilling  that  her  children  should  be  under 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


163 


the  jurisdiction  of  any  other  woman,  besought  his  Majesty  to 
})lace  them  in  a tower  at  her  death,  and  keep  them  there  safe 
until  the  young  rrinees  should  come  of  age. 

Tlie  Queen  dies  : the  King  of  course  marries  again,  and  the 
new  Queen,  who  bears  a son  too,  hates  the  offspring  of  tlie  for- 
mer marriage,  and  looks  about  for  means  to  destroy’  them. 

At  length  the  Queen,  havim/  (jot  some  hustness  with  the  hen- 
wife^  went  herself  to  her,  and  after  a long  conference  passed, 
was  taking,  leave  of  her,  wlien  the  lieu-wile  prayed  that  if 
ever  she  should  come  back  to  her  again  she  might  break  her 
neck.  The  C^ueen,  greatly"  incensed  at  such  a daring  insult 
from  one  of  her  meanest  subjects,  to  make  such  a prayer  on 
her,  demanded  immediately  the  reason,  or  she  would  have  her 
put  to  death.  ‘ It  was  worth  your  while,  madam,’  says  the 
hen-wife,  '•  to  }>ay  me  well  for  it,  for  the  reason  1 iira^^ed  so  on 
you  concerns  you  much.’  ^ What  must  1 pay  3011?’  asked  the 
Queen.  ‘ You  must  give  me,’  sa_ys  she,  ‘ the  full  of  a pack  of 
wool ; and  I have  an  ancient  crock  which  3'ou  must  till  with 
liutter;  likewise  a barrel  which  you  must  fill  for  me  full  of 
wheat.’  '•  lIo\v  much  wool  will  it  take  to  the  pack?’  says  the 
Queen.  ‘ It  will  take  seven  herds  of  ishee[),’  said  she,  ‘ and 
their  increase  for  seven  years.’  llow  much  butter  will  it  take 
to  fill  3’our  crock?’  ‘ kSeyen  dairies,’  said  she,  ‘ and  the  increase 
for  seyen  years.’  ‘ And  how  much  will  it  take  to  fill  the  barrel 
3'ou  haye?  ’ sa3’s  the  Queen.  ‘ It  will  take  the  increase  of  seven 
barrels  of  wheat  for  seven  3’ears.’  ‘That  is  a great  quantit3g’ 
says  the  Queen,  ‘ but  the  reason  must  be  extraordinaiy,  and 
before  I want  it  I will  give  you  all  3'ou  demand.’  ” 

The  hen-wife  acquaints  the  Queen  with  the  existence  of  the 
three  sons,  and  giving  her  Majesty  an  enchanted  pack  of  cards, 
l)ids  her  to  get  the  3'oung  men  to  pla3^  with  her  with  these 
cards,  and  on  their  losing,  to  inflict  u[)on  them  such  a task  as 
must  iufalliblv  end  in  their  ruin.  All  young  princes  are  set 
upon  such  tasks,  and  it  is  a sort  of  opening  of  the  pantomime, 
before  the  tricks  and  activit3^  begin.  The  Queen  went  home, 
and  “got  speaking”  to  the  King  “ in  regard  of  his  children, 
and  she  broke  it  off  to  him  in  a very  polite  and  engaging  manner, 
so  that  he  could  see  no  muster  or  design  in  it.”  The  King 
agreed  to  bring  his  sons  to  court,  and  at  night,  when  the  royal 
party  “began  to  sport,  and  pla3"  at  all  kinds  of  diversions,” 
the  Queen  cunningl}"  challenged  the  three  Princes  to  play  cards. 
They'  lose,  and  she  sends  them  in  consequence  to  bring  her  back 
the  Knight  of  the  Glen’s  wild  steed  of  bells. 

On  their  road  (as  wandering  young  princes,  Indian  or  Irish, 


164 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


alwa3^s  do)  they  meet  with  the  Black  Thief  of  Sloan,  who  tells 
them  what  the}"  must  do.  But  they  are  caught  in  the  attempt, 
and  brought  “into  that  dismal  part  of  the  palace  where  the 
Knight  kept  a furnace  always  boiling,  in  which  he  threw  all 
olfenders  that  ever  came  in  his  way,  which  in  a few  minutes 
would  entirely  consume  them.  ‘ Audacious  villains  ! ’ says  the 
Knight  of  the  Glen,  ‘ how  dare  you  attempt  so  bold  an  action  as 
to  steal  my  steed  ? see  now  the  reward  of  your  folly  ; for  your 
greater  punishment,  I will  not  boil  you  all  together,  but  one 
after  the  other,  so  that  he  that  survives  may  witness  the  dire 
afflictions  of  his  unfortunate  companions.’  So  saying,  he 
ordered  his  servants  to  stir  up  the  fire.  ‘ We  wfill  boil  the 
eldest-looking  of  these  young  men  first,’  says  he,  ‘ and  so  on 
to  the  last,  which  will  be  this  old  chaynjnon  with  the  black  cap. 
lie  seems  to  be  the  captain,  and  looks  as  if  he  had  come 
through  many  toils.’  — ‘ I was  as  near  death  once  as  this  Prince 
is  yet,’  says  the  Black  Thief,  ‘ and  escaped  : and  so  will  he 
too.’  ‘No,  you  never  were,’  said  the  Knight,  ‘ for  he  is  within 
two  or  three  minutes  of  his  latter  end.’  ‘ But,’  says  the  Black 
Thief,  ‘ I was  within  one  moment  of  my  death,  and  I am  here 
yet.’  ‘ How  was  that?  ’ says  the  Knight.  ‘ I would  be  glad  to 
hear  it,  for  it  seems  to  be  impossible.’  ‘ If  you  think.  Sir 
Knight,’  says  the  Black  Thief,  ‘ that  the  danger  I was  in  sur- 
l)assed  that  of  this  young  man,  will  you  pardon  him  his  crime?  ’ 
‘ 1 will,’  says  the  Knight,  ‘ so  go  on  with  your  story.’ 

“ ‘ I was,  sir,’  says  he,  ‘ a very  wild  boy  in  my  youth,  and 
came  througli  many  distresses  : once  in  particular,  as  I w’as  on 
my  rambling,  I was  benighted,  and  could  find  no  lodging.  At 
length  I came  to  an  old  kiln,  and  being  much  fatigued,  I went 
up  and  lay  on  the  ribs.  I had  not  been  long  there,  when  I saw 
thi-ee  witches  coming  in  with  three  bags  of  gold.  Each  put  her 
bag  of  gold  under  her  head  as  if  to  sleep.  I heard  the  one  say 
to  the  other  that  if  the  Black  Thief  came  on  them  while  they 
slept  he  would  not  leave  them  a penny.  I found  by  their  dis- 
course that  everybody  had  got  my  name  into  their  mouth, 
though  I kept  silent  as  death  during  their  discourse.  At 
length  they  fell  fast  asleep,  and  then  I stole  softly  down,  and 
seeing  some  turf  convenient^  I placed  one  under  each  of  their 
heads,  and  ofi*  I went  with  their  gold  as  fast  as  I could. 

“ I had  not  gone  far,’  continued  the  Thief  of  Sloan,  ‘ until  I 
saw  a greyhound,  a hare,  and  a hawk  in  pursuit  of  me,  and  began 
to  think  it  must  be  the  witches  that  had  taken  that  metamor- 
phosis, in  order  that  I might  not  escape  them  unseen  either  by 
land  or  water.  Seeing  they  did  not  appear  in  any  formidable 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


165 


shape,  I was  more  than  once  resolved  to  attack  them,  thinking 
that  with  my  broad  sword  I could  easily  destroy  them.  But 
considering  again  that  it  was  perhaps  still  in  tlieir  power  to  be- 
come so,  I gave  over  the  attempt,  and  climbed  with  ditliculty 
up  a tree,  bringing  my  sword  in  my  hand,  and  all  the  gold 
along  with  me.  However,  when  they  came  to  the  tree  they 
Ibiiiul  what  L had  done,  and,  making  further  use  ol‘  their  hellish 
art,  one  of  them  was  changed  into  a smith’s  anvil,  and  another 
into  a piece  of  iron,  of  which  the  third  one  soon  made  a hatchet. 
Having  the  hatchet  made,  she  fell  to  cutting  down  the  tree,  and 
in  course  of  an  hour  it  began  to  shake  with  me.’” 

This  is  very  good  ami  original.  The  “boiling”  is  in  the 
first  fee-faw-fum  style,  and  the  old  allusion  to  the  old  cham- 
pion in  the  black  cap”  has  the  real  Ogresque  humor.  Nor  is 
that  simple  contrivance  of  the  honest  witches  without  its  charm  : 
for  if,  instead  of  wasting  their  time,  the  one  in  turning  herself 
into  an  anvil,  the  other  into  a [)iece  of  iron,  and  so  hammering 
out  a hatchet  at  considerable  labor  and  expense  — if  either  of 
them  had  turned  herself  into  a hatchet  at  once,  they  might  have 
chopped  down  the  Black  Thief  before  cock-crow,  when  the}^ 
were  obliged  to  oflT  and  leave  him  in  possession  of  the  bags 
of  gold. 

The  eldest  Prince  is  ransomed  by  the  Knight  of  the  Glen  in 
consequence  of  this  story ; and  the  second  Prince  escapes  on 
account  of  the  merit  of  a second  story ; but  the  great  story  of 
all  is  of  course  reserved  for  the  3’oungest  Prince. 

“ I was  one  da}"  on  my  travels,”  says  the  Black  Thief,  “ and 
I came  into  a large  forest,  where  I wandered  a long  time  and 
could  not  get  out  of  it.  At  length  I came  to  a large  castle, 
and  fatigue  obliged  me  to  call  into  the  same,  where  1 found  a 
young  woman,  and  a child  sitting  on  her  knee,  and  she  crying. 
1 asked  her  what  made  her  cry,  and  where  the  lord  of  the  castle 
w-as,  for  I wondered  greatly  that  I saw  no  stir  of  servants  or  any 
person  about  the  place.  ‘ It  is  well  for  you,’  says  the  young- 
woman,  ‘ that  the  lord  of  this  castle  is  not  at  home  at  present ; 
for  he  is  a monstrous  giant,  with  but  one  eye  on  his  forehead, 
who  lives  on  human  flesh.  He  brought  me  this  child,’  says  she 
— ‘ I do  not  know  where  he  got  it  — and  ordered  me  to  make 
it  into  a pie,  and  I cannot  help  crying  at  the  command.’  1 told 
her  that  if  she  knew  of  any  place  convenient  that  1 could  leave 
the  child  safely,  I would  do  it,  rather  than  that  it  should  be 
buried  in  the  bowels  of  such  a monster.  She  told  of  a house 
a distance  off,  where  1 would  get  a woman  who  w"Ould  take 
care  of  it,  ^ But  what  will  I do  in  regard  of  the  pie?  ’ ‘ Cut  & 


166 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


finger  off  it,’  said  I,  ‘ and  I will  bring  you  in  a }'Oung  wild  pig 
ont  of  the  forest,  which  }’ou  ma}^  dress  as  if  it  was  the  child, 
and  put  the  finger  in  a certain  place,  that  if  the  giant  doubts 
an>dhing  about  it,  3^011  ma}"  know  where  to  turn  it  over  at  first, 
and  when  he  sees  it  he  will  be  fully  satisfied  that  it  is  made  of 
the  child.’  She  agreed  to  the  plan  I proposed  ; and,  cutting  off 
the  child’s  finger,  by  her  direction  I soon  had  it  at  the  house 
she  told  me  of  and  brought  her  the  little  pig  in  the  place  of  it. 
She  then  made  read3'  the  pie ; and,  after  eating  and  drinking 
heartil3'  m3’self,  I was  just  taking  m}^  leave  of  the  3'oung  woman 
wlien  we  observed  the  giant  coming  through  tire  castle-gates. 

‘ Lord  bless  me  ! ’ said  she,  ‘ what  will  3^011  do  now?  run  away 
and  lie  down  among  the  dead  bodies  that  he  has  in  the  room  ’ 
(showing  me  the  place) , ‘ and  strip  off  3^our  clothes  that  he  ma3' 
not  know  3’ou  from  the  rest  if  he  has  occasion  to  go  that  way.’ 
I took  her  advice,  and  laid  myself  down  among  the  rest,  as  if 
dead,  to  see  how  he  would  behave.  The  first  thing  I heard 
was  him  calling  for  his  pie.  When  she  set  it  down  before  him, 
he  swore  it  smelt  like  swine’s  flesh  ; but,  knowing  where  to  find 
the  finger,  she  immediatel3^  turned  it  up  — which  faiii3^  con- 
vinced him  of  the  contraiy.  The  pie  01113^  served  to  sharpen 
liis  appetite,  and  I heard  him  sharpen  his  knife,  and  saying  he 
must  have  a collop  or  two,  for  he  was  not  near  satisfied.  But 
what  was  my  teiTor  when  I heard  the  giant  groping  among  the 
bodies,  and,  fancying  myself,  cut  the  half  of  m3’  hip  off,  and 
took  it  with  him  to  be  roasted.  You  may  be  certain  I was  in 
great  pain  ; but  the  fear  of  being  killed  prevented  me  from 
making  any  com[)laint.  However,  when  he  had  eat  all,  he  be- 
gan to  drink  hot  li(iuors  in  great  abundance,  so  that  in  a short 
time  lie  could  not  hold  up  his  head,  but  threw  himself  on  a 
large  creel  he  had  made  for  the  purpose,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 
WJtcn  ever  I heard  him  snoring,  bad  as  I was,  I went  up  and 
caused  the  woman  to  bind  my  wound  with  a handkerchief ; and 
taking  the  giant’s  spit,  I reddened  it  in  the  fire,  and  ran  it 
through  the  e3'e,  but  was  not  able  to  kill  him.  However,  I left 
the  spit  sticking  in  his  head  and  took  to  mv  heels  ; but  I soon 
found  he  was  in  pursuit  of  me,  although  blind  ; and,  having  an 
enchanted  ring,  he  threw  it  at  me,  and  it  fell  on  m3’  big  toe 
and  remained  fastened  to  it.  The  giant  then  called  to  the  ring, 

‘ Where  it  was?’  and  to  1113’  great  surprise  it  made  him  answer, 

‘ On  my  foot,’  and  he,  guided  by  the  same,  made  a leap  at  me 
— which  I had  the  good  luck  to  observe,  and  fortunately  escaped 
the  danger.  However,  I found  running  was  of  no  use  in  saving 
me  as  long  as  I had  the  ring  on  1113’  foot ; so  I took  m3’  sword 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


1G7 


and  cut  off  the  toe  it  was  fastened  on,  and  threw  both  into  a 
large  fish-pond  that  was  convenient.  The  giant  called  again  to 
the  ring,  which,  by  the  power  of  enchantment,  always  made 
answer  ; but  he,  not  knowing  what  I had  done,  imagined  it  was 
still  on  some  part  of  me,  and  made  a violent  leap  to  seize  me  — 
when  he  went  into  the  pond  over  head  and  ears  and  was  drowned. 
Now,  Sir  Knight,”  said  the  Thief  of  Sloan,  ‘^  you  see  what 
dangers  I came  through  and  alwaj'S  escaped ; but  indeed  1 am 
lame  for  want  of  1113'  toe  ever  since.” 

And  now  remains  but  one  question  to  be  answered,  viz.  How 
is  the  Black  Thief  himself  to  come  off?  This  difficulty  is  solved 
in  a veiy  dramatic  wa}'  and  with  a sudden  turn  in  the  narrative 
that  is  very  wild  and  curious. 

My  lord  and  master,”  saj's  an  old  woman  that  was  listen- 
ing all  the  time,  “ that  story  is  but  too  true,  as  1 well  know: 
for  I am  the  very  woman  that  was  in  the  giant’s  castle^  and  you^ 
my  lord^  the  child  that  I was  to  make  into  a,  pie  ; and  this  is  the 
veiy  man  that  saved  your  life,  which  you  may  know  by  the 
want  of  your  finger  that  was  taken  off,  as  3'ou  have  heard,  to 
deceive  the  giant.” 

That  fantastical  wa}^  of  bearing  testimoii}’  to  the  previous 
tale,  by  producing  an  old  woman  who  says  the  tale  is  not  onl}^ 
true,  but  she  was  the  veiy  old  woman  who  lived  in  the  giant’s 
castle,  is  almost  a stroke  of  genius.  It  is  fine  to  think  that 
the  simple  chronicler  found  it  necessaiy  to  have  a proof  for  his 
stoiy,  and  he  was  no  doubt  perfectl}^  contented  with  the  proof 
found. 

“The  Knight  of  the  Glen,  greatly  surprised  at  what  he 
had  heard  the  old  woman  tell,  and  knowing  he  wanted  his 
finger  from  his  childhood,  began  to  understand  that  the  story 
was  true  enough.  ‘ And  is  this  my  dear  deliverer?’  says  he. 

‘ O brave  fellow,  I not  onl}’  pardon  3^011  all,  but  I will  keep  3’ou 
with  nyself  while  3^011  live  ; where  3'ou  shall  feast  like  princes 
and  have  eveiy  attendance  that  I have  nn^self.’  The3’  all  re- 
turned thanks  on  their  knees,  and  the  Black  Thief  told  him  the 
reason  they  attempted  to  steal  the  steed  of  bells,  and  the  neces- 
sity they  were  under  of  going  home.  ‘ Well,’  sa3^s  the  Knight 
of  the  Glen,  ‘ if  that’s  the  case,  I bestow  3'ou  my  steed  rather 
than  this  brave  fellow  should  die  : so  3^011  ma3"  go  when  you 
please  : 011I3"  remember  to  call  and  see  me  betimes,  that  we  ma3^ 
know  each  other  well.’  They  promised  the3^  would,  and  with 
great  joy  the3^  set  off  for  the  King  their  father’s  palace,  and  the 
Black  Thief  along  with  them.  The  wicked  Queen  was  standing 
all  this  time  on  the  tower,  and  hearing  the  bells  ringing  at  a 


168 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


great  distance  off,  knew  A'ery  well  it  was  the  Princes  coming 
home,  and  the  steed  with  them,  and  through  spite  and  veX” 
ation  precipitated  herself  from  the  tower  and  was  shattered  to 
pieces.  The  three  Princes  lived  happ^"  and  well  during  their 
father’s  reign,  alwa3^s  keeping  the  Black  Thief  along  with  them  ; 
but  how  the}’  did  after  the  old  King’s  death  is  not  known.” 

Then  we  come  upon  a story  that  exists  in  many  a European 
language — of  the  man  cheating  Death;  then  to  the  history  of 
the  Apprentice  Thief,  who  of  course  cheated  his  masters  : which, 
too,  is  an  old  tale,  and  may  have  been  told  very  likely  among 
those  Phcenicians  who  were  the  fathers  of  the  Hibernians,  for 
whom  these  tales  were  devised.  A very  curious  tale  is  there 
concerning  Manus  O’MalagliJ  n and  the  Fairies:  — ^‘In  the 
parish  of  Ahoghill  lived  Manus  O’Malaghan.  As  he  was  search- 
ing for  a calf  that  had  strayed^  he  heard  many  people  talking. 
Drawing  near,  he  distinctly  heard  them  repeating,  one  after  the 
other,  ‘ Get  me  a horse,  get  me  .a  horse  ; ’ and  ‘ Get  me  a horse 
too,’  says  Manus.  Manus  was  instantly  mounted  on  a steed, 
surrounded  with  a vast  crowd,  who  galloped  off,  taking  poor 
Manus  with  them.  In  a short  time  they  suddenly  stopped  in 
a large  wide  street,  asking  Manus  if  he  knew  where  he  was? 

‘ Faith,’  says  he,  ‘I  do  not.’  ‘ You  are  in  Spain’  said  they.” 
Here  we  have  again  the  wild  mixture  of  the  positive  and 
the  fanciful.  The  chronicler  is  careful  to  tell  us  why  Manus 
went  out  searching  for  a calf,  and  this  positiveness  prodigiously 
increases  the  reader’s  wonder  at  the  subsequent  events.  And 
the  question  and  answer  of  the  mysterious  horseman  is  fine : 
“ Don’t  you  know  where  you  are?  In  Spain.”  A vague  solu- 
tion, such  as  one  has  of  occurrences  in  dreams  sometimes. 

The  history  of  Robin  the  Blacksmith  is  full  of  these  strange 
flights  of  poetry.  He  is  followed  about  “ by  a little  boy  in  a 
green  jacket,”  who  performs  the  most  wondrous  feats  of  the 
blacksmith’s  art,  as  follows  : — 

“Robin  was  asked  to  do  something,  who  wisely  shifted  it,, 
saying  he  would  be  very  sorry  not  to  give  the  honor  of  the  first 
trick  to  his  lordship’s  smith  — at  which  the  latter  was  called 
forth  to  the  bellows.  When  the  fire  was  w’ell  kindled,  to  the 
great  surprise  of  all  present,  he  blew  a great  shower  of  wheat 
out  of  the  fire,  which  fell  through  all  the  shop.  They  then  de- 
manded of  Robin  to  try  what  he  could  do.  ‘ Idio  ! ’ said  Robin, 
as  if  he  thought  nothing  of  what  was  done.  ‘ Come,’  said  he 
to  the  boy,  ‘ I think  I showed  you  something  like  that.’  The 
boy  goes  then  to  the  bellows  and  blew  out  a great  flock  of 
pigeons,  who  soon  devoured  all  the  grain  and  then  disappeared. 


THE  IRISH  SIvETCH  BOOK. 


•169 


“ The  Dublin  smith,  sorely  vexed  that  such  a boy  should 
©utdo  him,  goes  a second  time  to  the  bellows  and  blew  a fine 
trout  out  of  the  hearth,  who  jumped  into  a little  river  that  was 
running  by  the  shop-door  and  was  seen  no  more  at  that  time. 

Robin  then  said  to  the  boy.  * Come,  }'Ou  must  bring  us 
yon  trout  back  again,  to  let  the  gentlemen  see  we  can  do  some- 
thing.’ Away  the  boy  goes  and  blew  a large  otter  out  of  the 
hearth,  who  immediately  leaped  into  the  river  and  in  a short 
time  returned  with  the  trout  in  his  mouth,  and  then  disappeared. 
All  present  allowed  that  it  was  a folly  to  attempt  a competition 
any  further.” 

The  boy  in  the  green  jacket  was  one  of  a kind  of  small 
beings  called  fairies  ; ” and  not  a little  does  it  add  to  the  charm 
of  these  wild  tales  to  feel,  as  one  reads  them,  chat  the  writer 
must  have  believed  in  his  heart  a great  deal  of  what  he  told. 
You  see  the  tremor  as  it  were,  and  a wild  look  of  the  eyes,  as 
the  story-teller  sits  in  his  nook  and  recites,  and  peers  wistfulh' 
round  lest  the  beings  he  talks  of  be  really  at  hand. 

Let  us  give  a couple  of  the  little  tales  entire.  They  are  not 
so  fanciful  as  those  before  mentioned,  but  of  the  comic  sort, 
and  suited  to  the  first  kind  of  capacity  mentioned  by  the  author 
in  his  preface. 

DONALD  AND  HIS  NEIGHBORS. 

“ riuDDEX  and  Dudden  and  Donald  O’Xeary  were  near  neigh- 
bors in  the  barony  of  Ballinconlig,  and  ploughed  with  three  bul- 
locks ; but  the  two  former,  envying  the  present  prosperity  of 
the  latter,  determined  to  kill  his  bullock  to  prevent  his  farm 
being  properly  cultivated  and  labored  — that,  going  back  in 
the  world,  he  might  be  induced  to  sell  his  lands,  which  the}- 
meant  to  get  possession  of.  Poor  Donald,  finding  his  bullock 
killed,  immediately  skinned  it,  and  throwing  the  skin  over  his 
shoulder,  with  the  fieshy  side  out,  set  off  to  the  next  town  with 
it,  to  dispose  of  it  to  the  best  advantage.  Going  along  the 
road  a magpie  flew  on  the  top  of  the  hide,  and  began  picking 
it.  chattering  all  the  time.  This  bird  had  been  taught  to  speak 
and  imitate  the  human  voice,  and  Donald,  thinking  he  under- 
stood some  words  it  was  saying,  put  round  his  hand  and  caught 
hold  of  it.  Having  got  possession  of  it,  he  put  it  under  his 
great-coat,  and  so  went  on  to  tlie  town.  Having  sold  the  hide, 
he  went  into  an  inn  to  take  a dram  ; and,  following  the  land- 
lady into  the  cellar,  he  gave  the  bird  a squeeze,  which  caused 
it  to  chatter  some  broken  accents  that  surprised  her  very  much. 


170 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


‘ What  is  that  I hear?  ’ said  she  to  Donald  : ‘ I think  it  is  talk, 
and  3’et  I do  not  understand.’  ‘ Indeed,’  said  Donald,  ‘ it  is  a 
bird  I have  that  tells  me  everything,  and  I alwa3's  cany  it  with 
me  to  know  when  there  is  any  danger.  Faith,’  says  he,  ‘ it 
sa3"s  you  have  far  better  liquor  than  you  are  giving  me.’  ‘ That 
is  strange,’  sail  she,  going  to  another  cask  of  better  qualit3q 
and  asking  him  if  he  would  sell  the  bird.  ‘ I will,’  said  Donald, 
‘ if  1 get  enough  for  it.’  ‘ I will  fill  3’our  hat  with  silver  if  3^ou 
will  leave  it  with  me.’  Donald  was  glad  to  hear  the  news, 
and,  taking  the  silver,  set  off,  rejoicing  at  his  good  luck.  He 
had  not  been  long  home  when  he  met  wuth  Hudden  and  Dud- 
den.  ‘ Ha ! ’ said  he,  ‘ 3’ou  thought  3^ou  did  me  a bad  turn, 
but  3'ou  could  not  have  done  me  a better : for  look  here  what 
I have  got  for  the  hide,’  showing  them  the  liatful  of  silver. 
‘ You  never  saw  such  a demand  for  hides  in  3^0111’  life  as  there 
is  at  present.’  Hudden  and  Dudden  that  veiy  night  killed  their 
bullocks,  and  set  out  the  next  morning  to  sell  their  hides.  On 
coming  to  the  place  the3"  went  to  all  the  merchants,  but  could 
onl3^  get  a trifle  for  them.  At  last  the3’  had  to  take  what  the3" 
could  get,  and  came  home  in  a great  rage  and  vowing  revenge 
on  poor  Donald.  He  had  a pretty  good  guess  how  matters 
would  turn  out,  and  his  bed  being  under  the  kitchen-window, 
he  was  afraid  they  would  rob  him,  or  perhaps  kill  him  when 
asleep  ; and  on  that  account,  wdien  he  was  going  to  bed,  lie  left 
his  old  mother  in  his  bed,  and  lay  down  in  her  place,  which 
Avas  in  tlie  other  side  of  the  house,  and  they,  taking  the  old 
woman  for  Donald,  choked  her  in  the  bed  ; but  he  making  some 
noise,  they  had  to  retreat  and  leave  the  money  behind  them, 
which  grieved  them  veiy  much.  IIoweAmr,  bv  da3'break,  Don- 
ald got  his  mother  on  his  back,  and  carried  her  to  town.  Stop- 
ping at  a well,  he  fixed  his  mother  with  her  staff  as  if  she  was 
stooping  for  a drink,  and  then  went  into  a public-house  con- 
venient and  called  for  a dram.  ‘ I wish,'  said  he  to  a woman 
.that  stood  near  him,  ‘you  would  tell  my  mother  to  come  in. 
'She  is  at  von  well  trying  to  get  a drink,  and  she  is  hard  in 
healing:  if  she  does  not  observe  3’ou,  give  her  a little  shake, 
and  tell  her  that  I want  her.’  The  woman  called  her  several 
times,  but  she  seemed  to  take  no  notice  : at  length  she  went 
to  her  and  shook  her  by  the  arm  ; but  when  she  let  her  go 
again,  she  tumbled  on  her  head  into  the  well,  and,  as  the 
woman  thought,  was  drowned.  She,  in  great  fear  and  surprise 
at  the  accident,  told  Donald  what  had  happened.  ‘ O mercy,’ 
said  he,  ‘ what  is  this?  ’ He  ran  and  pulled  her  out  of  the  w'ell, 
weeping  and  lamenting  all  the  time,  and  acting  in  such  a man- 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


m 


ncr  that  3’ou  would  imagine  that  he  had  lost  his  senses.  The 
W'ornan,  on  the  other  hand,  was  far  worse  than  Donald  : for  his 
grief  was  only  feigned,  but  she  imagined  herself  to  be  the  cause 
of  the  old  woman’s  deatli.  The  inhabitants  of  the  town,  hear- 
ing wliat  had  liap})ened,  agreed  to  make  Donald  up  a good  sum 
of  monc}'  for  his  loss,  as  the  accident  happened  in  their  place  ; 
and  Donald  brought  a greater  sum  home  with  him  than  he  got 
for  the  magpie.  They  buried  Donald’s  mother ; and  as  soon 
as  he  saw  Hudden  ami  Dudden,  he  showed  them  the  last  purse 
of  money  he  had  got.  ‘ You  thought  to  kill  me  last  night,’ 
said  he  ; ‘ but  it  was  good  for  me  it  happened  on  1113^  mother, 
for  I got  all  that  purse  for  her  to  make  gunpowder.’ 

“ That  very  night  Iludden  and  Dudden  killed  their  mothers, 
and  the  next  morning  set  off  with  them  to  town.  On  coming 
to  the  town  with  their  burden  on  their  backs,  they  went  up 
and  down  crying,  ' AVho  will  buy  old  wives  for  gunpowder?  ’ so 
that  ever}’  one  laughed  at  them,  and  the  boys  at  last  clodded 
them  out  of  the  place.  They  then  saw  the  cheat,  and  vowing 
revenge  on  Donald,  buried  the  old  women  and  set  off  in  pur- 
suit of  him.  Coming  to  his  house,  the}’  found  him  sitting  at 
his  breakfast,  and  seizing  him,  put  him  in  a sack,  and  went  to 
drown  him  in  a river  at  some  distance.  As  they  were  going 
along  the  highway  they  raised  a hare,  which  they  saw  had  but 
three  feet,  and,  throwing  off  the  sack,  ran  after  her,  thinking 
by  ai)pearance  she  would  be  easily  taken.  In  their  absence 
there  came  a drover  that  way,  and  hearing  Donald  singing  in 
the  sack,  wondered  greatly  what  could  be  the  matter.  ‘ What 
is  the  reason,’  said  he,  '■  that  you  are  singing,  and  you  con- 
lined?’  ‘Oh,  I am  going  to  heaven,’  said  Donald:  ‘and  in 
a short  time  I expect  to  be  free  from  trouble.’  ‘ Oh,  dear,’ 
said  the  drover,  ‘ what  will  I give  you  if  you  let  me  to  }'our 
place?’  ‘Indeed  I do  not  know,’  said  he:  ‘ it  would  take  a 
good  sum.’  ‘ I have  not  much  money,’  said  the  drover  ; ‘ but 
I have  twenty  head  of  fine  cattle,  wdiich  I will  give  you  to  ex- 
change places  with  me.’  ‘Well,  well,’  says  Donald,  ‘I  don’t 
care  if  I should  : loose  the  sack  and  I will  come  out.’  In  a 
moment  the  drover  liberated  him,  and  went  into  the  sack  him- 
self : and  Donald  drove  home  the  fine  heifers  and  left  them  in 
his  pasture. 

“ Hudden  and  Dudden  having  caught  the  hare,  returned, 
and  getting  the  sack  on  one  of  their  backs,  carried  Donald,  as 
they  thought,  to  the  river,  and  threw  him  in,  where  he  imme- 
diately sank.  They  then  marched  home,  intending  to  take 
immediate  possession  of  Donald’s  property  ; but  how  great  was 


172 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


their  surprise,  when  the}’^  found  him  safe  at  home  before  them, 
with  such  a line  herd  of  cattle,  whereas  they  knew  he  had  none 
before?  ‘ Donald,’  said  they,  ‘what  is  all  this!  We  thought 
you  were  drowned,  and  yet  you  are  here  before  us?’  ‘ Ah  I ’ 
said  he,  ‘ if  I had  but  help  along  with  me  when  }^ou  threw  me 
in,  it  would  have  been  the  best  job  ever  I met  with ; for  of  all 
the  sight  of  cattle  and  gold  that  ever  was  seen,  is  there,  and  no 
one  to  own  them  ; but  I was  not  able  to  manage  more  than 
what  3’ou  see,  and  I could  show  }'ou  the  spot  where  3’ou  might 
get  hundreds.’  The}'  both  swore  they  would  be  his  friends,  and 
Donald  according!}'  led  them  to  a very  deep  part  of  the  river, 
and  lifting  up  a stone,  ‘ Now,’  said  he,  ‘ watch  this,’  throwing 
it  into  the  stream.  ‘ There  is  the  very  place,  and  go  in,  one  of 
you,  first,  and  if  you  want  help  you  have  nothing  to  do  but 
call.’  lludden  jumping  in,  and  sinking  to  the  bottom,  rose  up 
again,  and  making  a bubbling  noise  as  those  do  that  are  drown- 
ing, seemed  trying  to  speak  but  could  not.  ‘ What  is  that  he 
is  saying  now?’  says  Dudden.  ‘Faith,’  says  Donald,  ‘he  is 
calling  for  help — don’t  you  hear  him?  Stand  about,’ con- 
tinued he,  running  back,  ‘ till  I leap  in.  I know  how  to  do 
better  than  any  of  you.’  Dudden,  to  have  the  advantage  of 
him,  jumped  in  olf  the  bank,  and  was  drowned  along  with  Hud- 
den.  And  this  was  the  end  of  lludden  and  Dudden.” 

THE  SPAEMAN. 

“ A POOR  man  in  the  North  of  Ireland  was  under  the  neces- 
sity of  selling  his  cow  to  help  to  support  his  family.  Having 
sold  his  cow,  he  went  into  an  inn  and  called  for  some  liquor. 
Having  drunk  pretty  heartily,  he  fell  asleep,  and  when  he  awoke 
he  found  he  had  been  robbed  of  his  money.  Poor  Roger  was 
at  a loss  to  know  how  to  act ; and,  as  is  often  the  case,  when  the 
landlord  found  that  his  money  was  gone,  he  turned  him  out  of 
doors.  The  night  was  extremely  dark,  and  the  poor  man  was 
compelled  to  take  up  his  lodging  in  an  old  uninhabited  house  at 
the  end  of  the  tovni. 

“ Roger  had  not  remained  long  here  until  he  was  surprised 
by  the  noise  of  three  men,  whom  he  observed  making  a hole, 
and,  having  deposited  something  therein,  closing  it  carefully  up 
again  and  then  going  away.  The  next  morning,  as  Roger  was 
walking  towards  the  town,  he  heard  that  a cloth-shop  had  been 
robbed  to  a great  amount,  and  that  a reward  of  thirty  pounds 
was  offered  to  any  person  who  could  discover  the  thieves.  This 
was  joyful  news  to  Roger,  who  recollected  what  he  had  been 


THE  miSH  SKETCH  BOOK.’ 


173 


witness  to  the  night  before.  He  according!}’  went  to  the  shop 
and  told  the  gentleman  that  for  the  reward  he  would  recover  the 
goods,  and  secure  the  robbers,  provided  he  got  six  stout  men  to 
attend  him.  All  which  was  thankfully  granted  him. 

“ At  night  Roger  and  his  men  concealed  themselves  in  the 
old  house,  and  in  a short  time  after  the  robljers  came  to  the 
spot  for  the  purpose  of  removing  their  booty  ; but  they  were 
instantly  seized  and  carried  into  the  town  prisoners,  with  the 
goods.  Roger  received  the  reward  and  returned  home,  well 
satisfied  with  his  good  luck.  Not  many  days  after,  it  was 
noised  over  the  country  that  this  robbery  was  discovered  by  the 
help  of  one  of  the  best  Spaomeii  to  be  found  — insomuch  tliat  it 
reached  the  ears  of  a worthy  gentleman  of  the  county  of  Derry, 
who  made  strict  inquiry  to  lind  him  out.  Having  at  length  dis- 
covered his  abode,  he  sent  for  Roger,  and  told  him  he  was  every 
day  losing  some  valuable  article,  and  as  he  was  famed  for  dis- 
covering lost  things,  if  he  could  lind  out  the  same,  he  should  be 
handsomely  rewarded.  Poor  Roger  was  put  to  a stand,  not 
knowing  what  answer  to  make,  as  he  had  not  the  smallest 
knowledge  of  the  like.  But  recovering  himself  a little,  he  re- 
solved to  humor  the  joke  ; and,  thinking  he  would  make  a good 
dinner  and  some  drink  of  it,  told  the  gentleman  he  would  try 
what  he  could  do,  but  that  he  must  have  a room  to  himself  for 
three  hours,  during  which  time  he  must  have  three  bottles  of 
strong  ale  and  his  dinner.  All  which  the  gentleman  told  him 
he  should  have.  No  sooner  was  it  made  known  that  the  Spae^ 
man  was  in  the  house  than  the  servants  were  all  in  confusion, 
wishing  to  know  what  would  be  said. 

“ As  soon  as  Roger  had  taken  his  dinner,  he  was  shown  into 
an  elegant  room,  where  the  gentleman  sent  him  a quart  of  ale 
by  the  butler.  No  sooner  had  he  set  down  the  ale  than  Roger 
said,  ‘ There  comes  one  of  them  ’ (intimating  the  bargain  he  had 
made  with  the  gentleman  for  the  three  quarts),  which  the  butler 
took  in  a wrong  light  and  imagined  it  was  himself.  He  went 
away  in  great  confusion  and  told  his  wife.  ‘ Poor  fool,’  said 
she,  ‘ the  fear  makes  you  think  it  is  you  he  means  ; but  I will 
attend  in  your  place,  and  hear  what  he  will  say  to  me.’  Accord- 
ingly she  carried  the  second  quart : but  no  sooner  had  she 
o[)ened  the  door  than  Roger  cried,  ‘ There  comes  two  of  them.’ 
The  woman,  no  less  surprised  than  her  husband,  told  him  the 
Spaeman  knew  her  too.  ‘And  what  will  we  do?’  said  he. 

‘ We  will  be  hanged.’  ‘ I will  tell  you  what  we  must  do,’  said  she  : 
‘ we  must  send  the  groom  the  next  time  ; and  if  he  is  known, 
we  must  offer  him  a good  sum  not  to  discover  on  us.’  The 


-THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


1V4 

butler  went  to  William  and  told  him  the  whole  story,  and  that 
he  must  go  next  to  see  what  the  Spaeman  would  say  to  him, 
telling  him  at  the  same  time  what  to  do  in  case  he  was  known 
also.  When  the  hour  was  expired,  William  was  sent  with  the 
third  quart  of  ale  — which  when  Roger  observed,  he  cried  out, 
‘ There  is  the  third  and  last  of  them ! ’ At  which  the  groom 
changed  color,  and  told  him  ‘ that  if  he  would  not  discover  on 
them,  they  would  show  him  where  the  goods  were  all  concealed 
and  give  him  five  pounds  besides.’  Roger,  not  a little  sur- 
prised at  the  discovery  he  had  made,  told  him  ‘ if  he  recovered 
the  goods,  he  would  follow  them  no  further.’ 

‘‘  By  this  time  the  gentleman  called  Roger  to  know  how  he 
had  succeeded.  He  told  him  ‘ he  could  find  the  goods,  but  that 
the  thief  was  gone.’  ‘ I will  be  well  satisfied,’  said  he,  ‘ with 
the  goods,  for  some  of  them  are  very  valuable.’  ‘ Let  the 
butler  come  along  with  me,  and  the  whole  shall  be  recovered.’ 
Roger  was  accordingl3^  conducted  to  the  back  of  the  stables, 
where  the  articles  were  concealed,  — such  as  silver  cups,  spoons, 
bowls,  knives,  forks,  and  a variety  of  other  articles  of  great 
value. 

“When  the  supposed  Spaeman  brought  back  the  stolen 
goods,  the  gentleman  was  so  highly  pleased  with  Roger  that  he 
insisted  on  liis  remaining  with  him  always,  as  he  supposed  he 
would  be  perfectly  safe  as  long  as  he  was  about  his  house. 
Roger  gladl}'  embraced  the  olfer,  and  in  a few  days  took  posses- 
sion of  a piece  of  land  which  the  gentleman  had  given  to  him 
in  consideration  of  his  great  abilities. 

“ Some  time  after  this  the  gentleman  w.as  relating  to  a large 
corn[)an}^  the  discoveiy  Roger  had  made,  and  that  he  could  tell 
aiytliing.  One  of  the  giuitlemen  said  he  would  dress  a dish  of 
meat,  and  bet  fifty  [lounds  that  he  could  not  tell  what  was  in 
it,  though  he  would  allow  him  to  taste  it.  The  bet  being  taken 
and  the  dish  dressed,  the  gentleman  sent  for  Roger  and  told 
him  the  bet  that  was  de})cnding  on  him.  Poor  Roger  did  not 
know  what  to  do;  but  at  last  he  consented  to  the  trial.  The 
dish  being  [irodnced,  he  tasted  it,  but  could  not  tell  what  it  was. 
At  last,  seeing  he  was  fairl}'  beat,  he  said,  ‘ Gentlemen,  it  is 
folly  to  talk  : the  fox  ma}'  run  a while,  but  he  is  caught  at 
last,’  — allowing  with  himself  that  he  wms  found  out.  The  gen- 
tleman that  had  made  the  bet  then  confessed  that  it  was  a fox 
he  had  dressed  in  the  dish  : at  which  the}^  all  shouted  out  in 
fiivor  of  the  Spaeman,  — particularly^  his  master,  who  had  more 
confidence  in  him  than  ever. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  EoOIv. 


1T5 


Roger  then  went  home,  and  so  famous  did  he  become,  tiiat 
no  one  dared  take  aii3  thing  but  what  belonged  to  them,  fearing 
that  the  Spaeman  would  discover  on  them. 


And  so  we  shut  up  the  Hedge-school  Library,  and  close  the 
Galwa3’  Nights’  Entertainments.  They  are  not  quite  so  genteel 
as  Almack’s  to  be  sure  ; but  man}"  a lady  who  has  her  opera- 
box  in  London  has  listened  to  a piper  in  Ireland. 

Apropos  of  pipers,  here  is  a young 
one  that  1 caught  and  copied  to-day. 

He  was  paddling  in  the  mud,  shining 
in  the  sun  careless  of  his  rays,  and 
playing  his  little  tin  music  as  happy 
as  Mr.  Cooke  with  his  oboe. 

Perhaps  the  above  verses  and  tales 
are  not  unlike  m}'  little  Galway  mu- 
sician. They  are  grotesque  and  rug- 
ged ; but  they  are  pretty  and  innocent 
heaited  too  ; and  as  sucli,  polite  per- 
sons may  deign  to  look  at  them  for 
once  in  away.  While  we  have  Signor 

Costa  in  a white  neck-cloth  ordering  opera-bands  to  play  for  us 
the  music  of  Donizetti,  which  is  not  only  sublime  but  genteel : 
of  course  such  poor  little  operatives  as  he  who  inlays  the  wind 
instrument  yonder  caunot  expect  to  be  heard  often.  But  is  not 
this  Galway?  and  how  far  is  Galway  from  the  Haymarket? 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

FROM  GALWAY  TO  B ALLIN AHINCH. 

The  Clifden  car,  which  carries  the  Dublin  letters  into  the 
heart  of  Connemara,  conducts  the  passenger  over  one  of  the 
most  wild  and  beautiful  districts  that  it  is  ever  the  fortune  of  a 
traveller  to  examine  ; and  I could  not  help  thinking,  as  we 
passed  through  it,  at  how  much  pains  and  expense  honest  Eng- 
lish cockneys  are  to  go  and  look  after  natural  beauties  far  in- 
ferior, in  countries  which,  though  more  distant,  are  not  a whit 
more  strange  than  this  one.  No  doubt,  ere  long,  when  people 


176 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


know  how  easy  the  task  is,  the  rush  of  London  tourism  will 
come  this  way  : and  1 shall  be  very  happy  if  these  pages  shall 
be  able  to  awaken  in  one  bosom  beating  in  Tooley  Street  or 
the  Temple  the  desire  to  travel  towards  Ireland  next  year. 

After  leaving  the  quaint  old  town  behind  us,  and  ascending 
one  or  two  small  eminences  to  the  north-westward,  the  traveller, 
from  the  car,  gets  a view  of  the  wide  sheet  of  Lough  Corrib 
shining  in  the  sun,  as  we  saw  it,  with  its  low  dark  banks  stretch- 
ing round  it.  If  the  view  is  gloomy,  at  least  it  is  characteristic  : 
nor  are  we  delayed  by  it  very  long  ; for  though  the  lake  stretches 
northwards  into  the  very  midst  of  the  Joj’ce  countiy,  (and  is 
there  in  the  close  neighborhood  of  another  huge  lake.  Lough 
Mask,  which  again  is  near  to  another  sheet  of  water,)  yet  from 
this  road  henceforth,  after  keeping  company  with  it  for  some 
live  miles,  we  only  get  occasional  views  of  it,  passing  over  hills 
and  through  trees,  by  many  rivers  and  smaller  lakes,  which  are 
dependent  upon  that  of  Corrib.  Gentlemen’s  seats,  on  the 
road  from  Galway  to  Mo3x*ullen,  are  scattered  in  great  pro- 
fusion. Perhaps  there  is  grass  growing  on  the  gravel-walk, 
and  the  iron  gates  of  the  tumble-down  old  lodges  are  rather 
ricket}' ; but,  for  all  that,  the  places  look  comfortable,  hospi- 
table, and  spacious.  As  for  the  shabbiness  and  want  of  finish 
here  and  there,  the  English  e}’e  grows  quite  accustomed  to  it 
in  a month  : and  I find  the  bad  condition  of  the  Galwa}’  houses 
by  no  means  so  painful  as  that  of  the  places  near  Dublin.  At 
some  of  the  lodges,  as  we  pass,  the  mail-carman,  with  a warn- 
ing shout,  flings  a bag  of  letters.  I saw  a little  part^’  looking 
at  one  which  lay  there  in  the  road  ciying,  “ Come,  take  me  ! ” 
but  nobod}"  cares  to  steal  a bag  of  letters  in  this  countiy,  I sup- 
liose,  and  the  carman  drove  on  without  an}"  alarm.  Two  days 
afterwards  a gentleman  with  whom  I was  in  company  left  on  a 
rock  his  book  of  fishing-flies  ; and  I can  assure  you  there  was 
a very  diflTerent  feeling  expressed  about  the  safety  of  that. 

In  the  first  part  of  the  journey,  the  neighborhood  of  the  road 
seemed  to  be  as  populous  as  in  other  parts  of  the  country: 
troops  of  red-petticoated  peasantry  peering  from  their  stone- 
cabins  ; yelling  children  following  the  car,  and  crying,  “ Lash, 
lash  ! ” It  was  Sunday,  and  you  would  see  many  a white  chapel 
among  the  green  bare  plains  to  the  right  of  the  road,  the  court- 
yard blackened  with  a swarm  of  cloaks.  The  service  seems  to 
continue  (on  the  part  of  the  people)  all  day.  Troops  of  people 
issuing  from  the  chapel  met  us  at  Moycullen ; and  ten  miles 
further  on,  at  Oughterard,  their  devotions  did  not  yet  seem  to 
be  concluded. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  ROOK. 


177 


A more  beautiful  village  can  scarcely  be  seen  than  this.  It 
stands  upon  Lough  Corrib,  the  banks  of  which  are  here,  for 
once  at  least,  picturesque  and  romantic : and  a pretty  river, 
the  Keogh,  comes  rushing  over  rocks  and  b}’  woods  until  it 
l)asses  tlie  town  and  meets  the  lake.  Some  pretty  buildings  in 
Ihe  village  stand  on  each  bank  of  this  stream  : a Roman  Catliolic 
cliapel  witli  a curate’s  neat  lodge  ; a little  church  on  one  side 
of  it,  a line  court-house  of  gray  stone  on  the  other.  And  here 
it  is  that  we  get  into  the  1‘amous  district  ot  Connemara,  so  cele- 
brated in  Irish  stories,  so  mysterious  to  the  London  tourist. 
“It  presents  itself,”  says  the  Guide-book,  under  eveiy  pos- 
sible coml)ination  of  heathy  moor,  bog,  lake,  and  mountain. 
Extensive  mossy  plains  and  wild  pastoral  valleys  lie  embosomed 
among  the  mountains,  and  sup[)ort  numerous  herds  of  cattle 
and  horses,  for  which  tlie  district  has  been  long  celebrated. 
These  wild  solitudes,  which  occupy  by  far  the  greater  part  of 
the  centre  of  the  country,  are  held  by  a hardy  and  ancient  race 
of  grazing  farmers,  who  live  in  a veiy  primitive  state,  and, 
generally  speaking,  till  little  beyond  what  supplies  their  im- 
mediate wants.  bAr  the  lirst  ten  miles  the  country  is  compara- 
tivel}'  open  ; and  the  mountains  on  the  left,  which  are  not  ot 
great  elevation,  can  be  distinctl}'  traced  as  they  rise  along  the 
edge  of  the  heathy  [)lain. 

“ Our  road  continues  along  the  Keogh  river,  which  expands 
itself  into  several  consideral)le  lakes,  and  at  five  miles  from 
Oughterard  we  reach  Lough  Bohn,  which  the  road  also  skirts. 
Kassing  in  succession  Lough-a-Preaghan,  the  lakes  of  Anderran 
and  Shindella,  at  ten  miles  from  Oughterard  we  reach  Slyme 
and  Lynn’s  Inn,  or  Half-way  House,  wliich  is  near  the  shore 
of  Loughonard.  Now,  as  we  advance  towards  the  group  of 
Binabola,  or  the  Twelve  Pins,  the  most  gigantic  scenery  is  dis- 
played.” 

But  the  best  guide-book  that  ever  was  written  cannot  set  the 
view  before  the  mind’s  e}^e  of  the  reader,  and  I won’t  attempt 
to  pile  up  big  words  in  place  of  these  wdld  mountains,  over 
which  the  clouds  as  they  passed,  or  the  sunshine  as  it  w'ent  and 
came,  cast  eveiy  A^ariet}'  of  tint,  light,  and  shadow  ; nor  can  it 
be  expected  that  long,  level  sentences,  howcA^er  smooth  and 
shining,  can  be  made  to  pass  as  representations  of  those  calm 
lakes  b}^  which  we  took  our  wa}\  All  one  can  do  is  to  hiy  down 
the  pen  and  ruminate,  and  cry,  “Beautiful!”  once  more;  and 
to  the  reader  say,  “ Come  and  see  1 ” 

Wild  and  Avide  as  the  prqspect  around  ns  is,  it  has  somehow 
a kindl^q  friendly  look  ; differing  in  this  from  the  fierce  lone- 

12 


17^ 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


liness  of  some  similar  scenes  in  Wales  that  I have  viewed. 
Ragged  women  and  children  come  out  of  rude  stone-huts  to  see 
the  car  as  it  passes.  But  it  is  impossible  for  the  pencil  to  give 
due  raggedness  to  the  rags,  or  to  convey  a certain  picturesque 
mellowness  of  color  that  the  garments  assume.  The  sexes,  with 
regard  to  raiment,  do  not  seem  to  be  particular.  There  were 
many  bo^^s  on  the  road  in  the  nation^il  red  petticoat,  having  no 
other  covering  for  their  lean  brown  legs.  As  for  shoes,  the 
women  eschew  them  almost  entirel}" ; and  I saw  a peasant 
trudging  from  mass  in  a handsome  scarlet  cloak,  a fine  blue- 
cloth  gown,  turned  up  to  show  a new  lining  of  the  same  color, 
and  a petticoat  quite  white  and  neat  — in  a dress  of  which  the 
cost  must  have  been  at  least  1G>..  ; and  her  husband  walked  in 
front  carrying  her  shoes  and  stockings. 

The  road  had  conducted  us  for  miles  through  the  vast  property 
of  the  gentleman  to  whose  house  I was  bound,  Mr.  Martin,  the 
Member  for  the  count}' ; and  the  last  and  prettiest  part  of  the 
journey  was  round  the  Lake  of  Ballinahinch,  with  tall  mountains 
rising  immediately  above  us  on  the  right,  pleasant  woody  hills 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  lake,  with  the  roofs  of  the  houses 
rising  above  the  trees  ; and  in  an  island  in  the  midst  of  the 
water  a ruined  old  castle  cast  a long  white  reflection  into  the 
blue  waters  where  it  lay.  A land-pirate  used  to  live  in  that 
castle,  one  of  the  peasants  told  me,  in  the  time  of  “ Oliver 
Cromwell.”  And  a fine  fastness  it  was  for  a robber,  truly  ; for 
there  was  no  road  through  these  wild  countries  in  his  time  — 
nay,  only  thirty  years  since,  this  lake  was  at  three  days’  dis- 
tance of  Galway.  Then  comes  the  question.  What,  in  a country 
where  there  were  no  roads  and  no  travellers,  and  where  the  in- 
habitants have  been  wretchedly  poor  from  time  immemorial,  — 
what  was  there  for  the  land-pirate  to  rob?  But  let  us  not  be 
too  curious  about  times  so  early  as  those  of  Oliver  Cromwell. 
I liave  heard  the  name  many  times  from  the  Irish  peasant,  who 
/still  lias  an  aw'e  of  the  grim,  resolute  Protector. 

The  builder  of  Ballinahinch  House  has  placed  it  to  command 
a view  of  a [iretty  melancholy  river  that  runs  by  it,  through 
many  green  fiats  and  picturesque  rocky  grounds  ; but  from  the 
lake  it  is  scarcely  visible.  And  so,  in  like  manner,  I fear  it 
must  remain  invisible  to  the  reader  too,  with  all  its  kind  in- 
mates, and  frank,  cordial  hospitality  ; unless  he  may  take  a 
fancy  to  visit  Galway  himself,  when,  as  I can  A'ouch,  a very  small 
pretext  will  make  him  enjoy  both. 

It  will,  however,  be  only  a small  breach  of  confidence  to  say 
that  the  major-domo  of  the  establishment  (who  has  adopted  ac- 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


179 


curately  the  voice  and  manner  of  his  master,  with  a severe  dig- 
nity of  his  own  which  is  quite  original,)  ordered  me  on  going  to 
bed  “ not  to  move  in  the  morning  till  he  called  me,”  at  the  same 
time  expressing  a hearty  hope  that  I should  “ want  nothing 
more  that  evening.”  Who  would  dare,  after  such  peremptory 
orders,  not  to  fall  asleep  immediately,  and  in  this  way  distuii) 
the  repose  of  Mr.  J — n M-ll-y? 

There  may  be  many  comparisons  drawn  between  EngMsli 
and  Irish  gentlemen’s  houses  ; but  perhaps  the  most  striking 
point  of  dilference  between  the  two  is  the  immense  following  of 
the  Irish  house,  such  as  would  make  an  English  housekeeper 
crazy  almost.  Three  comfortable,  well-clothed,  good-humored 
fellows  walked  down  with  me  from  the  car,  persisting  in  carry- 
ing one  a bag,  another  a sketching-stool,  and  so  on.  Walking 
about  the  premises  in  the  morning,  sundry  others  were  visible 
in  the  court-yard  and  near  the  kitchen-door.  In  the  grounds  a 
gentleman,  b^’  name  Mr.  Marcus  C-rr,  began  discoursing  to  me 
regarding  the  i)lace,  the  planting,  the  fish,  the  grouse,  and  the 
Master ; being  himself,  doubtless,  one  of  the  irregulars  of  the 
house.  As  for  maids,  theic  were  half  a score  of  them  skurrying 
about  the  house  ; and  I am  not  ashamed  to  confess  that  some 
of  them  were  exceedingly  good-looking.  And  if  I might  ven- 
ture to  sa}"  a word  more,  it  would  be  respecting  Connemara 
breakfasts  ; but  this  would  be  an  entire  and  llagrant  breach  of 
confidence,  and,  to  be  sure,  the  dinners  were  just  as  good. 

One  of  the  days  of  my  three  da}’s’  visit  was  to  be  devoted  to 
the  lakes ; and,  as  a party  had  been  arranged  for  the  second 
da}^  after  my  arrival,  I was  glad  to  take  advantage  of  the  society 
of  a gentleman  staying  in  the  house,  and  ride  with  him  to  the 
neighboring  town  of  Clifden. 

The  ride  thither  from  Ballinahinch  is  surprisingly"  beautiful ; 
and  as  you  ascend  the  high  ground  from  the  two  or  three  rude 
stone  huts  which  face  the  entrance-gates  of  the  house,  there  are 
views  of  the  lakes  and  the  surrounding  country"  which  the  best 
parts  of  Killarney"  do  not  surpass,  I think  ; although  the  Conne- 
mara lakes  do  not  possess  the  advantage  of  wood  which  be- 
longs to  the  famous  Keriy  landscape. 

But  the  cultivation  of  the  countiy  is  only  in  its  infancy"  as  y"et, 
and  it  is  easy"  to  see  how  vast  its  resources  are,  and  what  capi- 
tal and  cultivation  may  do  for  it.  In  the  green  patches  among 
the  rocks,  and  on  the  mountain-sides,  wherever  crops  were 
grown,  they"  flourished  ; plenty"  of  natural  wood  is  springing  up 
in  various  places  ; and  there  is  no  end  to  wha"  the  planter  may" 
do,  and  to  what  time  and  care  may’  effect.  The  carriage-road 


180 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


to  Clifden  is  but  ten  years  old  : as  it  has  brought  the  means  of 
communication  into  the  country,  the  commerce  will  doubtless 
follow  it ; and  in  fact,  in  going  through  the  whole  kingdom, 
one  caift  but  be  struck  with  the  idea  that  not  one  hundredth 
part  of  its  capabilities  are  yet  brought  into  action,  or  even 
known  perhaps,  and  that,  by  the  eas}'  and  certain  progress  of 
time,  Ireland  will  be  poor  Ireland  no  longer. 

For  instance,  we  rode  by  a vast  green  plain,  skirting  a lake 
and  river,  wdiich  is  now  useless  almost  for  pasture,  and  which 
a little  draining  will  convert  into  thousands  of  acres  of  rich 
productive  land.  Streams  and  falls  of  water  dash  by  every 
where  — they  have  onl}^  to  utilize  this  water-powder  for  mills  and 
factories  — and  hard  by  are  some  of  the  finest  bays  in  the  world, 
where  ships  can  deliver  and  receive  foreign  and  home  produce. 
At  Roundstone  especiall}',  wdiere  a little  town  has  been  erected, 
the  ba}'  is  said  to  be  unexampled  for  size,  depth,  and  shelter ; 
and  the  Government  is  now,  through  the  rocks  and  hills  on  their 
wild  shore,  cutting  a coast-road  to  Bunown,  the  most  westerly 
part  of  Connemara,  whence  there  is  another  good  road  to  Clif- 
den. Among  the  charges  which  the  “ Repealers  ” bivng  against 
the  Union,  the}’ should  include  at  least  this  : they  would  never 
have  had  these  roads  but  for  the  Union:  roads  which  are  as 
much  at  the  charge  of  the  London  tax-payer  as  of  the  most  ill- 
used  Milesian  in  Connaught. 

A string  of  small  lakes  follow  the  road  to  Clifden,  w’ith 
mountains  on  the  right  of  the  traveller  for  the  chief  part  of  the 
w’ay.  A few  hgiires  at  w’ork  in  the  bog-lands,  a red  petticoat 
})assing  here  and  there,  a goat  or  two  browsing  among  the 
stones,  or  a troop  of  ragged  whity-brow’ii  children  who  came 
out  to  gaze  at  the  car,  form  the  chief  society  on  the  road.  The 
first  house  at  the  entrance  to  Clifden  is  a gigantic  poor-house — • 
tall,  large,  ugly,  comfortable  ; it  commands  the  tow’n,  and  looks 
almost  as  big  as  every  one  of  the  houses  therein.  The  tow’ii  itself 
is  but  of  a few  years’  date,  and  seems  to  thrive  in  its  small  w’ay. 
Clifden  Castle  is  a fine  chateau  in  the  neighborhood,  and  belongs 
to  another  ow'ner  of  immense  lands  in  Gahvay  — Mr.  D’Arcy. 

Here  a drive  was  proposed  along  the  coast  to  Bunow’n,  and 
I w’as  glad  to  see  some  more  of  the  country,  and  its  character. 
Nothing  can  be  wilder.  We  passed  little  lake  after  lake,  lying 
a few  furlongs  inw’ards  from  tlu'  shore.  There  w’ere  rocks  every- 
w'here,  some  patches  of  cultivated  land  here  and  there,  nor  w’as 
there  any  w’ant  of  inhabitants  along  this  savage  coast.  There 
were  numerous  cottages,  if  cottages  they  may  be  called,  and 
women,  and  above  all,  children  in  plenty.  Here  is  one  of  tli6 


THE  miSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


181 


former  — ber  attitude  as  she  stood  gazing  at  the  car.  To 
depict  the  multiplicity  of  her  rags  would  require  a month’s 
stud}^ 

At  length  we  came  in  sight  of  a half-built  edifice  which  is 
approached  by  a rockjq  dismal,  gray  road,  guarded  by  two  or 
three  broken  gates,  against  which  rocks  and  stones  were  piled, 
wliich  had  to  be  removed  to  give  an  entrance  to  our  car.  The 
gates  were  closed  so  laboriously,  I presume,  to  prevent  the 
egress  of  a single  black  consumi)tive  pig,  far  gone  in  the  family- 
way— a teeming  skeleton  — that  was  cropping  the  thin,  dry 
grass  that  grew  upon  a round  hill  which  rises  behind  this  most 
dismal  castle  of  Hunown. 

If  the  traveller  only  seeks  for  strange  sights,  this  place  will 
repay  his  curiosity.  Such  a dismal  house  is  not  to  be  seen  in 
all  England : or,  perhaps,  such  a dismal  situation.  The  sea 
lies  before  and  behind  ; and  on  each  side,  likewise,  are  rocks 
and  copper-colored  meadows,  b}'  which  a few  trees  have  made 
an  attempt  to  grow.  The  owner  of  the  house  had,  however, 
begun  to  add  to  it ; and  there,  unfinished,  is  a whole  apparatus 
of  turrets,  and  staring  raw  stone  and  mortar,  and  fresh  ruinous 
carpenters’  work.  And  then  the  court-yard!  — tumbled-down 
out-houses,  staring  empt}^  pointed  windows,  and  new-smeared 
plaster  cracking  from  the  walls  — a black  heap  of  turf,  a mouldy 
pump,  a wretched  old  coal-scuttle,  emptil}^  sunning  itself  in  the 
midst  of  this  cheerful  scene  ! There  was  an  old  Gorgon  who 
kept  the  place,  and  who  was  in  perfect  unison  with  it:  Venus 
herself  would  become  bearded,  blear-eyed,  and  haggard,  if  left 
to  be  the  housekeeper  of  this  dreary  place. 

In  the  house  was  a comfortable  parlor,  inhabited  by  the 
})riest,  who  has  the  painful  charge  of  the  district.  Here  were 
liis  books  and  his  breviaries,  his  reading-desk  with  the  cross 
engraved  upon  it,  and  his  portrait  of  Daniel  O’Connell  the 
Liberator  to  grace  the  walls  of  his  lonely  cell.  There  was  a 
dead  crane  hanging  at  the  door  on  a gaff : his  red  fish-like  eyes 
were  staring  open,  and  his  eager  grinning  bill.  A rifle-ball 
had  passed  through  his  body.  And  this  was  doubtless  the  only 
game  about  the  place  ; for  we  saw  the  sportsman  who  had 
killed  the  bird  hunting  vainly  up  the  round  hill  for  other  food 
for  powder.  This  gentleman  had  had  good  sport,  he  said,  shoot- 
ing seals  upon  a neighboring  island,  four  of  which  animals  he 
had  slain. 

Mounting  up  the  round  hill,  we  had  a view  of  the  Sline 
Lights  — the  most  westerly  point  in  Ireland. 

Here  too  was  a ruined  sort  of  summer-house,  dedicated  “ Deo 


182 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


HiBERNiiE  Liberatori.”  When  these  lights  were  put  up,  I an\ 
told  the  proprietor  of  Bunown  was  recommended  to  apply  for 
compensation  to  Parliament,  inasmuch  as  there  would  be  no 
more  wrecks  on  the  coast : from  which  branch  of  commerce  the 
inhabitants  of  the  district  used  formerly  to  derive  a consider- 
able profit.  Between  these  Sline  Lights  and  America  nothing 
lies  but  the  Atlantic.  It  was  beautifully  blue  and  bright  on 
tiiis  da}',  and  the  sk}"  almost  cloudless  ; but  I think  the  bright- 
ness only  made  the  scene  more  dismal,  it  being  of  that  order  of 
beauties  which  cannot  bear  the  full  light,  but  require  a cloud  or 
a curtain  to  set  them  off  to  advantage.  A prettv  story  was  told 
me  by  the  gentleman  who  had  killed  the  seals.  The  place  where 
he  had  been  staying  for  sport  was  almost  as  lonel}"  as  this  Bun- 
own,  and  inhabited  b}'  a priest  too  — a }^oung,  livel}',  well- 
educated  man.  “ When  1 came  here  first,”  the  priest  said, 
“7  cried  for  two  days:"  but  afterwards  he  grew  to  like  the 
place  exceedingly,  his  whole  heart  being  directed  towards  it, 
his  chapel,  and  his  cure.  Who  would  not  honor  such  mission- 
aries — the  virtue  they  silentl}'  practise,  and  the  doctrines  they 
preach?  After  hearing  that  story,  I think  Bunown  looked  not 
quite  so  dismal,  as  it  is  inhabited,  they  say,  b}'  such  another 
character.  What  a pity  it  is  that  John  Tuam,  in  the  next 
county  of  Mayo,  could  not  find  such  another  hermitage  to  learn 
modesty  in,  and  forget  his  Graceship,  his  Lordship,  and  the 
sham  titles  by  which  he  sets  such  store. 

A moon  as  round  and  bright  as  any  moon  that  ever  shone, 
and  riding  in  a sky  perfectly  cloudless,  gave  us  a good  prom- 
ise of  a fine  da}'  for  the  morrow,  which  was  to  be  devoted  to 
the  lakes  in  the  neighborhood  of  Ballinahinch  : one  of  which. 
Lough  Ina,  is  said  to  be  of  exceeding  beauty.  But  no  man 
can  speculate  upon  Irish  weather.  I have  seen  a day  begin- 
ning with  torrents  of  rain  that  looked  as  if  a deluge  was  at 
luuid,  clear  up  in  a few  minutes,  without  any  reason,  and 
ogaiiist  the  prognostications  of  tlie  glass  and  all  other  weather- 
jwophets.  So  in  like  manner,  after  the  astonishingly  fine  night, 
there  came  a villanous  dark  day  : which,  however,  did  not  set 
in  fairlv  for  rain,  until  we  were  an  hour  on  our  journey,  with  a 
couple  of  stout  boatmen  rowing  us  over  Ballinahinch  Lake. 
Being,  however,  thus  fairly  started,  the  water  began  to  come 
down,  not  in  torrents  certainly,  but  in  that  steady,  creeping, 
insinuating  mist,  of  which  we  scarce  know  the  luxury  in  Eng- 
land ; ami  which,  I am  bound  to  say,  will  wet  a man’s  jacket  as 
satisfactorily  as  a cataract  would  do. 

It  was  just  such  another  day  as  that  of  the  famous  stag-hunt 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK„ 


183 


at  KillfU’iiey,  in  a word  ; and  as,  in  the  first  instance,  we  went 
to  see  the  deer  killed,  and  saw  nothing  thereof,  so,  in  the  second 
case,  we  went  to  see  the  landscape  with  precisely  the  same  good 
fortune.  The  mountains  covered  their  modest  beauties  in  im- 
})enetraljle  veils  of  clouds  ; and  the  only  consolation  to  the 
l)oat’s  crew  was,  that  it  was  a reniarkablj'  good  day  for  trout- 
fishing — which  amusement  some  people  are  said  to  prefer  to 
the  examination  of  landscapes,  however  beautiful. 

O you  wlio  laboriously  throw  Hies  in  English  rivers,  and 
catch,  at  the  ex[)iration  of  a hard  day’s  walking,  casting,  and 
wading,  two  or  three  feeble  little  brown  trouts  of  two  or  three 
ounces  in  weight,  how  would  you  rejoice  to  have  but  an  hour’s 
s})ort  in  Derryclear  or  liallinahinch  ; where  you  have  but  to 
cast,  and  lo  ! a big  trout  s[)rings  at  \'our  lly,  and,  after  making 
a vain  struggling,  s[)lashing,  and  plunging  lor  a while,  is  infal- 
libly landed  in  the  net  and  thence  into  the  boat.  The  single 
rod  in  the  l)oat  caught  enough  fish  in  an  hour  to  feast  the 
crew,  consisting  of  live  persons,  and  the  family  of  a herd  of 
Mr.  IMartin’s,  who  has  a pretty  cottage  on  Deriyclear  Lake, 
inhabited  b}'  a cow  and  its  calf,  a score  of  fowls,  and  I don’t 
know  how  many  sons  and  daughters. 

Having  caught  enough  trout  to  satisfy  any  moderate  appe- 
tite, like  true  sportsmen  the  gentlemen  on  board  our  boat 
became  eager  to  hook  a salmon.  Had  the}^  hooked  a few 
salmon,  no  doubt  they  would  have  trolled  for  whales,  or  for  a 
mermaid  ; one  of  which  finny  beauties  the  waterman  swore  he 
had  seen  on  the  shore  of  Deriyclear  — he  with  Jim  Mullen 
being  above  on  a rock,  the  mermaid  on  the  shore  directly 
beneath  them,  visible  to  the  middle,  and  as  usual  “racking 
her  hair.”  It  was  fair  hair,  the  boatman  said;  and  he  ap- 
peared as  convinced  of  the  existence  of  the  mermaid  as  he  was 
of  the  trout  just  landed  in  the  boat. 

In  regard  of  mermaids,  there  is  a gentleman  living  near 
Killala  Bay,  whose  name  was  mentioned  to  me,  and  who  de- 
clares solemnly  that  one  day,  shooting  on  the  sands  there,  he 
saw  a mermaid,  and  determined  to  try  her  with  a shot.  So  he 
drew  the  small  charge  from  his  gun  and  loaded  it  with  ball  — 
that  he  always  had  by  him  for  seal-shooting  — fired,  and  hit 
the  mermaid  through  the  breast.  The  screams  and  moans  of 
the  creature  — whose  person  he  describes  most  accurately  — 
were  the  most  horrible,  heart-rending  noises  that  he  ever,  he 
said,  heard  ; and  not  only  were  they  heard  by  him,  but  by  the 
fishermen  along  the  coast,  who  were  furiousl}"  angry  against 
Mr,  A u,  because,  they  said,  the  injury  done  to  the  mer' 


184 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


maid  would  cause  her  to  drive  all  the  fish  away  from  the  bay 
for  years  to  comoo 

But  we  did  not,  to  my  disappointment,  catch  a -glimpse  of 
one  of  these  interesting  beings,  nor  of  the  great  sea-horse  which 
is  said  to  inhabit  these  waters,  nor  of  any  fairies  (of  whom  the 
stroke-oar,  Mr.  Marcus,  told  us  not  to  speak,  for  the}^  didn’t 
like  bein’  spoken  of)  ; nor  even  of  a salmon,  though  the  fishermen 
produced  the  most  tempting  flies.  The  only  animal  of  any 
size  that  was  visible  we  saw  while  Ij'ing  b}’  a swift  black  river 
that  comes  jumping  with  innumerable  little  waves  into  Derr}- 
clear,  and  where  the  salmon  are  especiall}'  suffered  to  “ stand  : ” 
this  animal  w'as  an  eagle  — a real  wild  eagle,  with  gray  wings 
and  a white  head  and  belly : it  swept  round  us,  within  gunshot 
reach,  once  or  twice,  through  the  leaden  sky,  and  then  settled 
on  a gray  rock  and  began  to  scream  its  shrill,  ghastlj^  aquiline 
note. 

The  attempts  on  the  salmon  having  failed,  the  rain  continu- 
ing to  fall  steadily,  the  herd’s  cottage  before  named  was  resorted 
to  : when  Marcus,  the  boatman,  commenced  forthwith  to  gut 
the  fish,  and  taking  down  some  charred  turf-ashes  from  the 
blazing  fire,  on  which  about  a hundredweight  of  potatoes  were 
boiling,  he  — Marcus  — proceeded  to  grill  on  the  floor  some  of 
the  trout,  which  we  altcrwards  ate  with  immeasurable  satisfac- 
tion. They  were  such  trouts  as,  when  once  tasted,  remain  for 
ever  in  the  recollection  of  a commonl3'  grateful  mind  — rich, 
flak}',  cream}',  full  of  flavor.  A Parisian  gourmand  would  have 
paid  ten  francs  for  the  smallest  cooleen  among  them  ; and,  when 
transported  to  his  capital,  how  different  in  flavor  would  they 
have  been  ! — how  inferior  to  what  they  were  as  we  devoured 
them,  fresh  from  the  fresh  waters  of  the  lake,  and  jerked  as  it 
were  from  the  water  to  the  gridiron  ! The  world  had  not  had 
time  to  spoil  those  innocent  beings  before  they  were  gobbled 
up  with  })epper  and  salt,  and  missed,  no  doubt,  by  their  friends. 
I should  like  to  know  more  of  their  “ set."’  But  enough  of  this  : 
my  feelings  overpower  me  : sulRce  it  to  say,  they  were  red  or 
salmon  trouts  — none  of  your  white-fleshed  browm-skinned  river 
fellows. 

AVhen  the  gentlemen  had  finished  their  repast,  the  boatmen 
and  the  family  set  to  work  upon  the  ton  of  potatoes,  a number 
of  the  remaining  fish,  and  a store  of  other  good  things  ; then 
we  all  sat  round  the  turf-fire  in  the  dark  cottage,  the  rain  coming 
down  steadily  outside,  and  veiling  everything  except  the  shrubs 
and  verdure  immediately  about  the  cottage.  The  herd,  the 
herd’s  wife,  and  a nondescript  female  friend,  two  healthy  young 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


185 


herdsmen  in  corduroy  rags,  the  herdsman’s  daughter  paddling 
about  with  bare  feet,  a stout  blaek-e^’ed  wcmch  with  her  gown 
over  her  head  and  a red  petticoat  nut  (juite  so  good  as  new, 
the  two  boatmen,  a badger  just  killed  and  turned  inside  out, 
the  gentlemen,  some  hens  cackling  and  Happing  about  among 
the  rafters,  a calf  in  a corner  cropping  green  meat  and  occa- 
sionall}"  visited  by  tlie  cow  her  mamma,  formed  the  society  (T 
the  place.  It  was  rather  a strange  picture  ; but  as  for  about 
two  hours  w^e  sat  there,  and  maintained  an  almost  unbroken 
silence,  and  as  there  was  no  other  amusement  but  to  look  nt 
the  rain,  1 began,  after  the  enthusiasm  of  the  first  half-hour,  to 
think  that  after  all  London  was  a bearal)le  place,  and  that  for 
want  of  a turf- fire  and  a bench  in  Connemara,  one  ynujht  put 
up  with  a sofa  and  a newspaper  in  Pall  Mall. 

This,  however,  is  according  to  tastes  ; and  I must  sa}^  that 
Mr.  Marcus  betrayed  a most  bitter  contempt  for  all  cockne}" 
tastes,  awkwardness,  and  ignorance  : and  very  right  too.  The 
night,  on  our  return  home,  all  of  a sudden  cleared  ; but  though 
the  fishermen,  much  to  m3"  disgust  — at  the  expression  of 
which,  however,  the  rascals  onl}’  laughed  — persisted  in  making 
more  casts  for  trout,  and  trying  back  in  the  dark  upon  the 
spots  which  we  had  visited  in  the  morning,  it  a}g)eared  the  fish 
had  been  frightened  off  by  the  rain  ; and  the  sportsmen  met 
with  such  inditlerent  success  that  at  about  ten  o’clock  we  found 
ourselves  at  Ballinahinch.  Dinner  was  served  at  eleven,  and, 
I believe,  there  was  some  whiske3’-punch  afterwards,  recom- 
mended medicinally  and  to  prevent  the  ill  effects  of  the  wetting  : 
but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 

The  next  day  the  pett}*  sessions  were  to  be  held  at  Round- 
stone,  a little  town  which  has  lately  sprung  up  near  the  noble 
bay  of  that  name.  I was  glad  to  see  some  specimens  of  Con- 
nemara litigation,  as  also  to  behold  at  least  one  thousand  beau- 
tiful view"s  that  lie  on  the  live  miles  of  road  lietween  the  town 
and  Ballinahinch.  Rivers  and  rocks,  mountains  and  sea,  green 
plains  and  bright  skies,  how  (for  the  hundred-and-fiftieth  time) 
can  pen-and-ink  set  3^011  down?  But  if  Berghem  could  have 
seen  those  blue  mountains,  and  Karel  Dujardin  could  have 
copied  some  of  these  green,  airy  plains,  with  their  brilliant 
little  colored  groups  of  peasants,  beggars,  horsemen,  man3"  an 
Englishman  would  know  Connemara  upon  canvas  as  he  does 
Italy  or  Flanders  now . 


18G 


THE  IKISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

ROUNDSTONE  PETTY  SESSIONS. 

“The  temple  of  august  Themis,”  as  a Frendiman  would 
call  the  sessioiis-room  at  Roundstone,  is  an  apartment  of  some 
twelve  feet  square,  with  a deal  table  and  a couple  of  chairs  for 
the  accommodation  of  the  magistrates,  and  a Testament  with 
a paper  cross  pasted  on  it  to  be  kissed  b}^  the  witnesses  and 
complainants  who  frequent  the  court.  The  law-papers,  war- 
rants, &c.,  are  kept  on  the  sessions-clerk’s  bed  in  an  adjoining 
apartment,  which  commands  a line  view  of  the  court-3’ard  — 
where  there  is  a stack  of  turf,  a pig,  and  a shed  beneath  which 
the  magistrates’  horses  were  sheltered  during  the  sitting.  The 
sessions-clerk  is  a gentleman  “ having,”  as  the  phrase  is  here, 
both  the  English  and  Irish  languages,  and  interpreting  for  the 
benefit  of  the  worshipful  bench. 

And  if  the  cocknc}'  reader  supposes  that  in  this  remote 
country  spot,  so  wild,  so  beautiful,  so  distant  from  the  hum 
and  vice  of  cities,  quarrelling  is  not,  and  litigation  never  shows 
her  snaky  head,  he  is  veiy  much  mistaken.  From  what  I saw, 
I would  recommend  any  ingenious  young  attorney  whose  merits 
are  not  appreciated  in  the  metropolis,  to  make  an  attempt  upon 
the  village  of  Roundstone ; where  as  vet,  I believe,  there  is  no 
solicitor,  and  where  an  immense  and  increasing  practice  might 
speedily  be  secured.  Mr.  O’Connell,  wdio  is  always  crying 
out  “Justice  for  Ireland,”  finds  strong  supporters  among  the 
Roundstonians,  whose  love  of  justice  for- themselves  is  inordi- 
nate. 1 took  dowm  the  plots  of  the  five  first  little  litigious 
dramas  which  were  played  before  Mr.  Martin  and  the  stipen- 
diaiy  magistrate. 

Case  I.  — A bo}’  summoned  a 3’oung  man  for  beating  him 
so  severel}'  that  he  kept  his  bed  for  a week,  thereby  breaking 
an  engagement  with  his  master,  and  losing  a quarter’s  wmges. 

The  defendant  stated  in  repl}^  that  the  plaintiff  was  engaged 
— in  a field  through  which  defondant  passed  with  another  per- 
son — setting  tw^o  little  bo^  s to  fight ; on  which  defendant  took 
plaintiff  ly  the  collar  and  turned  him  out  of  the  field.  A wit- 
ness who  was  present  swore  that  defendant  never  struck  plain- 
tiff at  all,  nor  kicked  him,  nor  ill-used  him,  further  than  by 
pushing  him  out  of  the  field. 


I 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


187 


I As  to  the  loss  of  his  quarter’s  wages,  the  plaintiff  ingen- 
iously proved  that  he  had  afterwards  returned  to  his  master, 
that  he  had  worked  out  his  time,  and  that  he  had  in  fact  re- 
ceived already  the  greater  part  of  his  hire.  Upon  which  the 
case  was  dismissed,  the  defendant  quitting  court  without  a stain 
upon  his  honor. 

Case  2 was  a most  piteous  and  lamentable  case  of  killing 
a cow.  The  [)laiutiff  stepped  forward  witli  maii}^  tears  and 
**iuch  gesticulation  to  state  the  fact,  and  also  to  declare  that  she 
Was  in  danger  of  her  life  from  the  defendant’s  family. 

It  ap[)eared  on  the  evidence  that  a portion  of  tlie  defendant’s 
respectable  faniil}’  are  at  present  undergoing  the  rewards  which 
the  law  assigns  to  those  who  make  mistakes  in  fields  with  re 
gard  to  the  ownership  of  sheep  which  sometimes  graze  there 
The  defendant’s  father,  O’Damon,  for  having  apjiropriatcd  one 
of  the  lieecy  bleaters  of  O’Mcliba'us,  was  at  [iresent  passed 
beyond  sea  to  a countiy  where  wool,  and  consequently  mutton, 
is  so  plentiful,  that  he  will  have  the  less  temptation.  Defend 
ant’s  brothers  tread  the  Ixionic  wheel  for  the  same  offence. 
Plaintiff’s  son  had  been  the  informer  in  the  case;  hence  the 
feud  between  the  families,  the  threats  on  the  part  of  the  de- 
fendant, the  murder  of  the  innocent  cow. 

But  upon  investigation  of  the  business,  it  was  discovered, 
and  on  the  plaintiffs  own  testimon}’,  that  the  cow  had  not  been 
killed,  nor  even  been  injured  ; but  that  the  defendant  had  flung 
two  stones  at  it,  which  might  have  inflicted  great  injury  had  they 
hit  the  animal  with  greater  force  in  the  ej'e  or  in  any  delicate 
place. 

Defendant  admitted  flinging  the  stones,  but  alleged  as  a 
reason  that  the  cow  was  trespassing  on  his  grounds  ; which 
plaintiff  did  not  seem  inclined  to  deiw.  Case  dismissed.  — 
Defendant  retires  with  unblemished  honor  ; on  which  his  mother 
steps  forward,  and  lifting  up  her  hands  with  tears  and  shrieks, 
calls  upon  God  to  witness  that  the  defendant’s  own  brother-in- 
law  had  sold  to  her  husband  the  very  sheep  on  account  of  which 
he  had  been  transported. 

Not  wishing  probabl}’  to  doubt  the  justice  of  the  verdict  of 
an  Irish  jury,  the  magistrate  abruptl}"  put  an  end  to  the  lam- 
entation and  oatlis  of  the  injured  woman  by  causing  her  to  be 
sent  out  of  court,  and  called  the  third  cause  on. 

This  was  a case  of  thrilling  interest  and  a complicated  nature, 
involving  two  actions,  which  ought  each  perhaps  to  have  been 
gone  into  separately,  but  were  taken  together.  In  the  first 
place  Timothy  Horgan  brought  an  action  against  Patrick  Dolan 


188 


THE  IKISH  sketch  BOOK. 


for  breach  of  contract  in  not  remaining  with  him  for  the  whole 
of  six  months  during  w^liich  Dolan  had  agreed  to  ser^  e Horgan. 
Then  Dolan  brought  an  action  against  Horgan  for  not  paying 
him  his  wages  for  six  months’ labor  done  — the  wages  being 
two  guineas. 

Horgan  at  once,  and  with  much  candor,  withdrew^  his  charge 
against  Dolan,  that  the  latter  had  not  remained  with  him  for  six 
months  : nor  can  I understand  to  this  day  why  in  the  first  place 
he  swore  to  the  charge,  and  why  afterwards  he  withdrew  it.  ' 
But  immediately  advancing  another  charge  against  his  late  servant  ‘ 

he  pleaded  that  he  had  given  him  a suit  of  clothes,  which  should 
be  considered  as  a set-off  against  part  of  the  monej"  claimed. 

Now  such  a suit  of  clothes  as  poor  Dolan  had  was  never 
seen  — I will  not  say  merely  on  an  English  scarecrow,  but 
on  an  Irish  beggar.  Strips  of  rags  fell  over  the  honest  fellow’s 
great  brawny  chest,  and  the  covering  on  his  big  brown  legs  i 
hung  on  by  a wonder.  He  held  out  his  arms  with  a grim  smile, 
and  told  his  worship  to  look  at  the  clothes  ! The  argument  was 
irresistible : Horgan  was  ordered  to  paj'  forthwith.  He  ought 
to  have  been  made  to  pay  another  guinea  for  clothing  a fellow- 
creature  in  rags  so  abominable. 

And  now  came  a case  of  trespass,  in  which  there  was  nothing 
interesting  but  the  attitude  of  the  poor  w'oman  who  trespassed, 
and  wdio  meekly  acknowledged  the  fact.  She  stated,  how^ever, 
that  she  only  got  over  the  wurll  as  a short  cut  home  ; but  the  wall 
w'as  eight  feet  high,  with  a ditch  too  ; and  I fear  there  were  cab- 
bages or  potatoes  in  the  inclosure.  They  fined  her  a sixpence, 
and  she  could  not  pay  it,  and  went  to  gaol  for  three  da^^s  — 
where  she  and  her  baby  at  any  rate  will  get  a meal.  i 

Last  on  the  list  wiiich  I took  down  came  a man  who  will  ? 

make  the  fortune  of  the  London  attorney  that  I hope  is  on  his  ' 

w'ay  hither  : a rather  old,  curly -headed  man,  with  a sly  smile  per- 
petually lying  on  his  face  (the  reader  may  give  wiiatever  inter- 
pretation he  please  to  the‘‘  lying”).  He  comes'  before  the 
court  almost  every  fortnight,  the}’  say,  with  a complaint  of  one 
kind  or  other.  His  present  charge  was  against  a man  for  i 

breaking  into  his  court-yard,  and  wishing  to  take  possession  f 

of  the  same.  It  appeared  that  he,  the  defendant,  and  another 
lived  in  a row  of  houses  : the  plaintiffs  house  w’as,  however,  I 

first  built ; and  as  his  agreement  specified  that  the  plot  of  J 

ground  behind  his  house  should  be  his  likewise,  he  chose  to  ? 

imagine  that  the  plot  of  ground  behind  all  the  three  houses  w’as  * 

his,  and  built  his  turf-stack  against  his  neighbor’s  window’.  ^ 

The  magistrates  of  course  pronounced  against  this  ingenious 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


ISO 

discoverer  of  wrongs,  and  he  left  the  court  still  smiling  and 
twisting  round  his  little  wicked  eyes,  and  declaring  solemnly 
that  he  would  put  in  an  appale.  If  one  could  have  purchased 
a kicking  at  a moderate  [>rice  off  that  fellow’s  back,  it  would 
have  been  a pleasant  little  piece  of  sell-indulgence,  and  I confess 
I longed  to  ask  him  the  [)rice  of  the  article. 

And  so,  after  a few  more  such  grent  cases,  the  court  rose, 
and  I had  leisure  to  make  moral  rellections,  if  so  minded  : 
sighing  to  think  that  cruelty  and  falsehood,  selfishness  and 
rapacity,  dwell  not  in  crowds  alone,  but  llourisli  all  the  woi  ld 
over — sweet  flowers  of  human  nature,  they  bloom  in  all 
climates  and  seasons,  and  are  just  as  much  at  home  in  a hot- 
house in  Thavies’  Inn  as  on  a lone  mouutaiu  or  a rocky  sea-coast 
in  Ireland,  where  never  a tree  will  grow  ! 

We  walked  along  this  coast,  after  the  judicial  proceedings 
were  over,  to  see  the  couiitrv,  and  the  new  road  that  the  Board 
of  Works  is  forming.  Such  a wilderness  of  rocks  I never 
saw  ! The  district  for  miles  is  covered  with  huge  stones,  shining 
white  in  patches  of  green,  with  the  Binabola  on  one  side  of  the 
spectator,  and  the  Atlantic  ruiiiiiug  in  and  out  of  a thousand 
little  bays  on  the  other.  The  countiy  is  very  hilly,  or  wavy 
rather,  being  a sort  of  ocean  petrified  ; and  the  engineers  have 
hard  work  with  these  numerous  abrupt  little  ascents  and  de- 
scents, which  they  equalize  as  best  they  may  — by  blasting,  cut- 
ting, tilling  cavities,  and  levelling  eminences.  Some  hundreds 
of  men  were  emplo3'ed  at  this  work,  bus}’ with  their  hand-bar- 
rows, their  picking  and  boring.  Their  pay  is  eighteenpence  a 
day. 

There  is  little  to  see  in  the  town  of  Roundstone,  except  a 
Presbyterian  chapel  in  process  of  erection  — that  seems  big 
enough  to  accommodate  the  Presbyterians  of  the  county  — and 
a sort  of  lay  convent,  being  a community  of  brothers  of  the 
third  order  of  Saint  Francis.  They  are  all  artisans  and  work- 
men, taking  no  vow’s,  but  living  together  in  common,  and  under- 
going a certain  religious  regimen.  Their  work  is  said  to  be  very 
good,  and  all  are  employed  upon  some  labor  or  other.  On  the 
front  of  this  unpi’etending  little  dwelling  is  an  inscription  with 
a great  deal  of  pretence,  stating  that  the  establishment  was 
founded  with  the  approbation  of  His  Grace  the  Most  Rev- 
erend the  Lord  Archbishop  of  Tuam.” 

The  Most  Reverend  Dr.  MacHale  is  a clergyman  of  great 
learning,  talents,  and  honesty,  but  his  Grace  the  Lord  Arch- 
bishop of  Tuam  strikes  me  as  being  no  better  than  a moun- 
tebank ; and  some  da}'  I hope  even  his  own  party  will  laugh 


190 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


this  humbug  down.  It  is  bad  enough  to  be  awed  by  big  titles 
at  all ; but  to  respect  sham  ones ! — O stars  and  garters  ! 
We  shall  have  his  Grace  the  Lord  Chief  Rabbi  next,  or  his 
Lordship  the  Arch-Irnaum ! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

CLIFDEN  TO  WESTPORT. 

On  lea\dng  Ballinahinch  (with  sincere  regret,  as  any  lonely 
tourist  may  imagine,  who  is  called  upon  to  quit  the  hospitable 
friendliness  of  such  a place  and  society),  my  way  lay  back  to 
Clilden  again,  and  thence  through  the  Joj’ce  countiy,  by  the 
Killery  mountains,  to  Westport  in  Mayo.  The  road,  amount- 
ing in  all  to  four-and-forty  Irish  miles,  is  performed  in  cars  in 
ditferent  periods  of  time,  according  to  your  horse  and  your 
luck.  Sometimes,  both  being  bad,  the  traveller  is  two  days 
on  the  road  ; sometimes  a dozen  hours  will  suffice  for  the  jour- 
ney — which  was  the  case  with  me,  though  I confess  to  having 
found  the  twelve  hours  long  enough.  After  leaving  Clifden. 
the  friendly  look  of  the  country  seemed  to  vanish  ; and  though 
picturesque  enough,  was  a thought  too  wild  and  dismal  for  e3^es 
accustomed  to  admire  a hop-garden  in  Kent,  or  a view  of  rich 
meadows  in  Surrey,  with  a clump  of  trees  and  a comfortable 
village  spire.  “ Inglis,”  the  Guide-book  says,  “compares  the 
scenes  to  the  Norwegian  Fiords.”  Well,  the  Norw^egian  Fiords 
must,  in  this  case,  be  very  dismal  sights  ! and  I own  that  the 
wildness  of  Hampstead  Heath  (with  the  imposing  walls  of 
“ Jack  Straw’s  Castle”  rising  stern  in  the  midst  of  the  green 
wdlderness)  is  more  to  ny  taste  than  the  general  views  of  }'es- 
terday. 

We  skirted  b}^  lake  after  lake,  lying  lonel}^  in  the  midst  of 
lonel}'  boglands,  or  bathing  the  sides  of  mountains  robed  in 
sombre  rifle  green.  Two  or  three  men,  and  as  muny  huts, 
you  see  in  the  course  of  each  mile  perhaps,  as  toiling  up  the 
bleak  hills,  or  jingling  more  rapidly  down  them,  you  pass 
through  this  sad  region.  In  the  midst  of  the  wilderness  a 
chapel  stands  here  and  there,  solitary,  on  the  hillside ; or  a 
ruinous,  useless  school-house,  its  pale  walls  contrasting  with 
the  general  surrounding  hue  of  sombre  purple  and  green. 
But  though  the  country  looks  more  dismal  than  Connemara, 


THE  lUlJSll  SKETCH  LOOK. 


191 


it  is  clearly  more  fertile  : we  passed  miles  of  <>Tomi(l  lliat  evi- 
deiitl}'  wanted  but  little  cultivation  to  make  tliem  profitable  ; 
and  along  the  mountain-sides,  in  many  i)laces,  and  over  a great 
extent  of  Mr.  1 Hake’s  country  es[)ecially,  the  hills  were  covered 
with  a thick  natural  i)lantalion,  that  may  yield  a little  brush- 
wood now,  but  might  in  fifty  3’ears’  time  bring  thousands  of 
pounds  of  revenue  to  the  descendants  of  the  Blakes.  This 
s[)cctacle  of  a countiy  going  to  waste  is  enough  to  make  tlie 
cheerfnllest  landscape  look  dismal : it  gives  this  wild  district 
a wofnl  look  indeed.  Tlie  names  of  the  lakes  by  which  we 
came  1 noted  down  in  a pocket-book  as  we  passed  along;  ])ut 
the  names  were  Irish,  the  car  was  rattling,  and  the  onl\'  name 
readable  in  the  catalogue  is  LetterfVack. 

The  little  hamlet  of  Leenane  is  at  twenty  miles’  distance 
from  Clifdcn  ; and  to  arrive  at  it,  von  skirt  the  mountain  along 
one  side  of  a vast  pass,  through  which  the  ocean  runs  from 
Killciy  Ha}’,  separating  the  mountains  of  Mavo  fi’om  the  moun- 
tains of  Galwa\x  Nothing  can  be  more  grand  and  gloomy 
than  this  pass  ; and  as  for  the  character  of  the  scenery,  it  must, 
as  the  Guide-book  says,  “ be  seen  to  be  understood.”  Mean- 
while, let  the  reader  .imagine  huge  dark  mountains  in  their 
accustomed  livery  of  pur[>le  and  green,  a dull  gra}^  sk}'  above 
them,  an  estuaiy  silver-bright  below  : in  the  water  lies  a fisher- 
man’s boat  or  two  ; a pair  of  seagulls  undulating  with  the  little 
waves  of  the  water ; a pair  of  curlews  wheeling  overhead  and 
piping  on  the  wing ; and  on  the  hillside  a jingling  car,  with  a 
cockney  in  it,  oppressed  by  and  yet  admiring  all  these  things. 
Many  a sketcher  and  tourist,  as  1 found,  has  visited  this  pic- 
turesque spot : for  the  hostess  of  the  inn  had  stories  of  English 
and  American  painters,  and  of  illustrious  book-writers  too, 
travelling  in  the  service  of  our  Lords  of  Paternoster  Row. 

The  landlord’s  son  of  Clifden,  a veiy  intelligent  3’oung 
fellow,  was  here  exchanged  for  a new  carman  in  the  person  of 
a raw  Irisher  of  twenty  years  of  age,  “having”  little  Phiglish, 
and  dressed  in  that  very  pair  of  pantaloons  which  TTumphrey 
Clinker  was  cora[)elled  to  cast  off  some  3'ears  since  on  account 
of  the  otfence  which  the}'  gave  to  Mrs.  Tabitha  Bramble.  This 
fellow,  emerging  from  among  the  boats,  went  off  to  a field  to 
seek  for  the  black  horse,  which  the  landlad}'  assured  me  was 
quite  fresh  and  had  not  been  out  all  day,  and  w'ould  cany  me 
to  Westport  in  three  hours.  Meanwhile  I was  lodged  in  a 
neat  little  parlor,  surveying  the  Mayo  side  of  the  water,  with 
some  cultivated  fields  and  a shov/  of  a village  at  the  spot  where 
the  estuary  ends,  and  above  them  lodges  and  line  dark  planta- 


192 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


tions  climbing  over  the  dark  hills  that  lead  to  Lord  Sligo’s  seat 
of  Delphi.  Presentl}^,  with  a curtsy,  came  a }"oung  woman  who 
sold  worsted  socks  at  a shilling  a pair,  and  whose  portrait  is 

It  required  no  small  pains 
to  entice  this  rustic  beaut}"  to 
stand  while  a sketch  should  be 
made  of  her.  Nor  did  any 
compliments  or  cajolements, 
on  my  part  or  the  landlady’s, 
bring  about  the  matter : it  was 
not  until  mone}"  was  offered 
that  the  lovel}-  creature  con- 
sented. I offered  (such  is  the 
ardor  of  the  real  artist)  either 
to  give  her  sixpence,  or  to 
purchase  two  pairs  of  her 
socks,  if  she  would  stand  still 
for  five  minutes.  On  which 
she  said  she  would  prefer  sell- 
ing the  socks.  Then  she  stood 
still  for  a moment  in  the  corner 
of  the  room ; then  she  turned 
her  face  towards  the  corner 
and  the  other  part  of  her  per- 
son towards  the  artist,  and  exclaimed  in  that  attitude,  “I 
inusv  have  a shilling  more.”  Then  1 told  her  to  go  to  the 
deuce.  Then  she  made  a proposition,  involving  the  stockings 
and  sixpence,  which  was  similarl}"  rejected  ; and,  finall}",  the 
above  splendid  design  was  completed  at  the  price  first  stated. 

However,  as  we  went  off,  this  timid  little  dove  barred  the 
door  for  a moment,  and  said  that  “ I ought  to  give  her  another 
shilling ; that  a gentleman  would  give  her  another  shilling,” 
and  so  on.  She  might  have  trod  the  London  streets  for  ten 
years  and  not  have  been  more  impudent  and  more  greedy. 

B}"  this  time  the  famous  fresh  horse  was  produced  and  the 
driver,  b}"  means  of  a wraprascal,  had  covered  a great  part  of 
the  rags  of  his  lower  garment.  He  carried  a whip  and  a stick, 
the  former  lying  across  his  knees  ornamentally,  the  latter  being 
for  service  ; and  as  his  feet  were  directly  under  the  horse’s  tail, 
he  had  full  command  of  the  brute’s  back,  and  belabored  it  for 
six  hours  without  ceasing. 

What  little  English  the  fellow  knew  he  uttered  with  a liowl, 
roaring  into  my  ear  answers  — which,  for  the  most  part,  were 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


193 


wrong  — to  various  questions  put  to  him.  The  lad’s  voice  was 
so  hideous,  that  1 asked  him  it  he  could  sing ; on  which  forth- 
with he  hegau  yelling  a most  horrible  Irish  ditt}'  — of  which  he 
told  me  the  title,  that  I liave  forgotten.  He  sang  three  stan- 
zas, certaiiiH  keeping  a kind  of  tune,  and  the  latter  lines  of 
each  verse  were  in  rhyme  ; but  when  1 asked  him  the  meaning 
of  the  song,  he  only  roared  out  its  Irish  title. 

On  questioning  the  driver  further,  it  turned  out  that  the 
horse,  warranted  fresh,  liad  already  performed  a journey  of 
eighteen  miles  that  morning,  and  the  conse(|uence  was  that  I 
had  full  leisure  to  survey  the  country  through  whicli  we  passed. 
There  W'ere  more  lakes,  more  mountains,  more  bog,  and  an 
excellent  road  through  this  lonely  district,  thongii  few  onl\'  of 
the  human  race  enlivened  it.  At  ten  miles  from  Leenane,  we 
stopped  at  a roadside  hut,  where  the  driver  pulled  out  a bag  of 
oats,  and  borrowing  an  iron  pot  iVom  the  good  people,  half 
filled  it  with  corn,  which  the  [)Oor  tired,  galled,  bewhipped 
black  horse  began  eagerly  to  devour.  The  young  charioteer 
himself  hinted  very  broadly  his  desire  for  a glass  of  whiskey, 
which  was  the  only  kind  of  refreshment  that  this  remote  house 
of  entertainment  sup[)lied. 

In  the  various  cabins  1 have  entered,  I have  found  talking 
a vain  matter : the  people  are  suspicious  of  the  stranger  within 
their  wretched  gates,  and  are  shy,  slv,  and  silent.  I have, 
commonl}',  onA  been  able  to  get  half-answers  in  reply  to  iny 
questions,  given  in  a manner  that  seemed  plainly  to  intimate 
that  the  visit  was  unwelcome.  In  this  rude  hostel,  however, 
the  landlord  was  a little  less  reserved,  offered  a seat  at  the 
tnrf-fire,  where  a painter  might  have  had  a good  subject  for 
his  skill.  There  Avas  no  chimney,  but  a hole  in  the  roof,  up 
which  a small  portion  of  the  smoke  ascended  ( the  rest  prefer- 
ring an  egress  by  the  door,  or  else  to  remain  in  the  apartment 
altogether) ; and  this  light  from  above  lighted  up  as  rude  a set 
of  figures  as  ever  were  seen.  There  were  two  brown  women 
with  black  eye?  and  locks,  the  one  knitting  stockings  on 
the  floor,  the  other  racking”  (with  that  natural  comb  which 
five  horny  fingers  supplv)  the  elf-locks  of  a dirty  urchin  between 
her  knees.  An  idle  fellow  was  smoking  his  pipe  by  the  fire  ; 
and  by  his  side  sat  a stranger,  who  had  been  made  welcome 
to  the  shelter  of  the  place  — a sickly,  well-looking  man,  whom 
I mistook  for  a deserter  at  first,  for  he  had  evidently  been  a 
soldier. 

But  there  was  nothing  so  romantic  as  desertion  in  his  history. 
He  had  been  in  the  Dragoons,  but  his  mother  had  purchased  his 


194 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


discharge  : he  was  married,  and  had  lived  comfortably  in  Cork 
for  some  time,  in  the  glass-blowing  business.  Trade  failing  at 
Cork,  he  had  gone  to  Belfast  to  seek  for  work.  There  was  no 
work  at  Belfast ; and  he  was  so  far  on  his  road  home  again : 
sick,  without  a penny  in  the  world,  a hundred  and  fift}^  miles 
to  travel,  and  a starving  wdfe  and  children  to  receive  him  at 
his  journey’s  end.  He  had  been  thrown  olf  a caravan  that  day, 
and  had  almost  broken  his  back  in  the  fall.  Here  was  a cheer- 
ing story  ! 1 wonder  where  he  is  now : how  far  has  the  poor 
starving  lonelj'  man  advanced  over  that  weaiy  desolate  road, 
that  in  good  health,  and  with  a horse  to  cany  me,  I thought  it 
a penalty  to  cross?  What  would  one  do  under  such  circum- 
stances, with  solitude  and  hunger  for  present  compan}",  despair 
and  starvation  at  the  end  of  the  vista?  There  are  a score  of 
lonel}'  lakes  along  the  road  which  he  has  to  pass : would  it  be 
well  to  stop  at  one  of  them,  and  fling  into  it  the  wretched  load 
of  cares  which  that  poor  broken  back  has  to  carry?  Would 
the  world  he  would  light  on  then  be  worse  for  him  than  that 
he  is  pining  in  now?  Heaven  help  us!  and  on  this  very  day, 
throughout  the  three  kingdoms,  there  are  a million  such  stories 
to  be  told.  Who  dare  doubt  of  heaven  after  that?  of  a place 
where  there  is  at  last  a welcome  to  the  heart-stricken  prodigal 
and  a happy  home  to  the  wretched  ? 

The  crumbs  of  oats  which  fell  from  the  mouth  of  the  feasting 
Dives  of  a horse  were  battled  for  outside  the  door  b}"  a dozen 
Lazaruses  in  the  shape  of  fowls  ; and  a lanky  young  pig,  who 
had  been  grunting  in  an  old  chest  in  the  cabin,  or  in  a miserable 
recess  of  huddled  rags  and  straw  which  formed  the  couch  of  the 
family,  presently  came  out  and  drove  the  poultry  away,  picking 
up,  with  great  accuracy,  the  solitary  grains  lying  about,  and 
more  than  once  trying  to  shove  his  snout  into  the  corn-pot,  and 
share  with  the  wretched  old  galled  horse.  Whether  it  was  that 
he  w'as  refreshed  by  his  meal,  or  that  the  car-boy  was  invigorated 
by  his  glass  of  whiskey,  or  inflamed  by  the  sight  of  eighteen- 
pence — which  munificent  sum  was  tendered  to  the  soldier — I 
don’t  know  ; but  the  remaining  eight  miles  of  the  Journey  w'ere 
got  over  in  much  quicker  time,  although  the  road  was  exceed- 
ingly bad  and  hilly  for  the  greatest  part  of  the  way  to  West- 
port.  However,  by  running  up  the  hills  at  the  pony’s  side,  the 
animal,  fired  with  emulation,  trotted  up  them  too  — descending 
them  with  the  proverbial  surefootedness  of  his  race,  the  car  and 
he  bouncing  over  the  rocks  and  stones  at  the  rate  of  at  least 
four  Irish  miles  an  hour. 

At  about  five  miles  from  Westport  the  cultivation  became 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


inn 

much  more  frequent.  There  were  plantations  upon  the  liills, 
yellow  corn  and  potatoes  in  plenty  in  tlie  fields,  and  houses 
thickly  scattered.  We  had  the  satisfaction,  too,  of  knowing 
that  future  tourists  will  have  an  excellent  road  to  travel  over  in 
this  district : for  by  the  side  of  the  old  road,  which  runs  up  and 
down  a hundred  little  rocky  steeps,  according  to  the  ancient 
l)lan,  you  see  a new  one  running  lor  severnl  miles,  — the  latter 
way  being  conducted,  not  over  the  hills,  but  around  them,  and, 
considering  the  cii'cumstances  of  the  country,  extremely  bi'oad 
and  even.  The  car-l)oy  presently  yelled  out  “Reck,  Reek!” 
with  a shriek  perfectly  a})[)alliug.  This  howl  was  to  signily  that 
we  w'cre  in  sight  of  that  famous  (conical  inoiintain  so  named,  and 
from  which  8t.  Patrick,  after  invHgiing  thither  all  the  venomous 
reptiles  in  Ireland,  [)recipitatcd  the  whole  noisome  race  into  Clew 
Bay.  The  road  also  for  several  miles  was  covered  with  people, 
who  were  Hocking  in  hundreds  from  \Vestport  market,  in  cars 
and  carts,  on  horsel)ack  single  and  double,  and  on  foot. 

And  presently,  from  an  eminence,  1 (aiught  sight  not  only  of 
a fine  view,  but  of  the  most  beautiful  view  I ever  saw  in  the 
world,  I think  ; and  to  enjoy  the  s[)lendor  of  which  I would 
travel  a hundred  miles  in  that  car  with  that  very  horse  and 
driver.  The  sun  was  just  about  to  set,  and  the  countiy  round 
about  and  to  the  east  was  almost  in  twilight.  The  mountains 
Avere  tumbled  about  in  a thousand  fantastic  Avays,  and  SAvarm- 
ing  Avith  [)cople.  Trees,  cornfields,  cottages,  made  the  scene 
indescribably  cheerful ; noble  AA’oods  stretched  toAvards  the  sea, 
and  abutting  on  them,  between  two  highlands,  lay  the  smoking 
toAvn.  Hard  by  Avas  a large  Gothic  building  — it  is  but  a poor- 
house  ; but  it  looked  like  a grand  castle  in  tlie  gray  evening. 
But  the  BaA"  — and  the  Reek  which  SAveeps  doAvn  to  the  sea  — 
and  a hundred  islands  in  it,  Avere  dressed  up  in  gold  and  purple 
and  crimson,  with  the  whole  cloudy  Avest  in  a fiame.  Wonder- 
ful, Avonderful ! . . . The  valleys  in  the  I'oad  to  Leenane  have  lost 
all  glimpses  of  the  snn  ere  this  ; and  I su[)pose  there  is  not  a 
soul  to  be  seen  in  the  black  landscape,  or  by  the  shores  of  the 
ghastly  lakes,  where  the  poor  glass-blower  from  the  whiskey 
shop  is  faintlj’  travelling  now. 


196 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

WESTPORT. 

Nature  has  done  much  for  this  pretty  town  of  Westport; 
and  after  nature,  the  traveller  ought  to  be  thankful  to  Lord 
Sligo,  who  has  done  a great  deal  too.  In  the  first  place,  he 
has  established  one  of  the  prettiest,  comfortablest  inns  in  Ire- 
land, in  the  best  part  of  his  little  town,  stocking  the  cellars  with 
good  wines,  filling  the  house  with  neat  furniture,  and  lending, 
it  is  said,  the  whole  to  a landlord  gratis,  on  condition  that  he 
should  keep  the  house  warm,  and  furnish  the  larder,  and  enter- 
tain the  traveller.  Secondl}’,  Lord  Sligo  has  given  up  for  the 
use  of  the  townspeople,  a beautiful  little  pleasure-ground  about 
his  house.  “ You  ma}"  depend  upon  it,”  said  a Scotchman  at 
the  inn,  “that  they’ve  right  of  })athway  through  the  grounds, 
and  that  the  marquess  couldn’t  shut  them  oot.”  Which  is  a 
pretty  fair  specimen  of  charity  in  this  world  — this  kind  world, 
that  is  always  ready  to  encourage  and  applaud  good  actions, 
and  find  good  motives  for  the  same.  I wonder  how  much  w^ould 
induce  that  Scotchman  to  allow  poor  people  to  walk  in  his  park, 
if  he  had  one  ! 

Ill  the  midst  of  this  pleasure-ground,  and  surrounded  by  a 
thousand  fine  trees,  dressed  up  in  all  sorts  of  verdure,  stands 
a jiretty  little  church  ; patlis  through  the  wood  lead  pleasantl}^ 
down  to  the  ba^’ ; and,  as  we  walked  down  to  it  on  the  day 
after  our  arrival,  one  of  the  green  fiefids  w'as  suddenl}'  black 
with  rooks,  making  a huge  cawing  and  clanging  as  they  settled 
down  to  feed.  The  house,  a handsome  massive  structure,  must 
command  noble  views  of  the  bay,  over  wdiich  all  the  colors  of 
Titian  were  spread  as  the  sun  set  behind  its  purple  islands. 

Printer’s  ink  will  not  give  these  wonderful  hues  ; and  the 
reader  will  make  his  picture  at  his  leisure.  That  conical  moun- 
tain to  the  left  is  Croaglq)atrick : it  is  clothed  in  the  most  mag- 
nificent violet-color,  and  a couple  of  round  clouds  were  exploding 
as  it  were  from  the  summit,  that  part  of  them  towards  the  sea 
lighted  up  with  the  most  delicate  gold  and  rose  color.  In  the 
centre  is  the  Clare  Island,  of  which  the  edges  were  bright  cobalt, 
whilst  the  middle  was  lighted  up  with  a brilliant  scarlet  tinge, 
such  as  I would  have  laughed  at  in  a picture,  never  having  seen 
in  nature  before,  but  looked  at  now  with  w’onder  and  pleasure 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  ROOK. 


10? 

until  the  line  disappeared  as  tlie  sun  went  away.  The  islands 
in  the  hay  (whieli  was  of  a gold  eolor)  looked  like  so  many 
dol[)hins  and  whales  basking  there.  ddie  rich  i)ark-woods 
stretched  down  to  the  shore  ; and  the  immediate  foreground 
consisted  of  a yellow  cornfield,  whereon  stood  innumerable 
shocks  of  corn,  casting  immense  lon“'  ))urple  shadows  over  the 
stubble.  The  farmer,  with  some  little  ones  about  him,  was 
sii[)erintending  his  reapers  ; and  I heard  him  say  to  a little  girl, 
Norey,  I love  you  the  best  of  all  iny  children!”  IVesently, 
one  of  the  rea[)ers  coming  up,  says,  “•  It’s  alwa3’S  the  custom  in 
these  [)arts  to  ask  strange  gentlemen  to  give  something  to  drink 
the  first  day  of  rea})ing  ; and  we’d  like  to  drink  your  honor’s 
health  in  a bowl  of  coffee.”  O fortunatos  niiniiim  ! The  cockney 
tak'es  out  sixpence,  and  thinks  that  he  nevei'  i)ass('d  such  a 
])lcasant  half-lioiir  in  all  his  life  as  in  that  cornfield,  looking  at 
that  wondt'rful  Ian'. 

A car  which  1 had  oi'derc'd  [jresentl}'  joined  me  from  the 
town,  and  going  down  a green  lane  very  like  England,  and 
across  a causeway  near  a building  where  tlie  carman  proposed 
to  show  me  “ me  lard’s  caflin  that  he  brought  from  Rome,  and 
a mighty  big  caflin  entireh',”  we  came  close  upon  the  water 
and  the  port.  There  was  a long  handsome  piei-  (which,  no 
doubt,  remains  at  this  i)resent  minute),  and  one  solitai-y  cutter 
lying  alongside  it ; which  may  or  may  not  be  there  now.  There 
were  about  three  boats  h'ing  near  the  cuttei',  and  six  sailors, 
with  long  shadows,  lolling  about  the  pier.  As  for  the  ware- 
houses, the}'  are  enormous  ; and  might  accommodate,  I should 
think,  not  only  the  trade  of  Westpoi  t,  but  of  Manchester  too. 
d’here  are  huge  streets  of  these  houses,  ten  stories  high,  with 
cranes,  owners’  names,  &c.,  marked  Wine  Stores,  Flour  vS tores. 
Bonded  Tol)acco  Wai’ehouses,  and  so  forth.  The  six  sailors 
that  were  singing  on  the  pier  no  doubt  are  each  admirals  of 
as  many  fleets  of  a hundred  sail  that  bring  wines  and  tobacco 
from  all  quarters  of  the  world  to  fill  these  enormous  warehouses. 
These  dismal  mausoleums,  as  vast  as  pyramids,  ai’e  the  places 
where  the  dead  trade  of  Westport  lies  buried  — a trade  that,  in 
its  lifetime,  probabl}'  was  about  as  big  as  a mouse.  Nor  is  this 
the  first  nor  the  hundredth  place  to  be  seen  in  this  countiy, 
which  sanguine  builders  have  erected  to  accommodate  an  iinagi- 
nary  commerce.  Mill-owners  over-mill  themselves,  merchants 
overWairehoiise  themselves,  squires  over-castle  themselves,  lit- 
tle tradesmen  about  Dublin  and  the  cities  over-villa  and  over-gig 
themselves,  and  we  hear  sad  tales  about  hereditary  bondage  and 
the  accursed  tyranu}"  of  England. 


198 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Passing  out  of  this  dreary,  pseudo-commercial  port,  the  road 
lay  along  the  beautiful  shores  of  Clew  Bay,  adorned  with  many 
a rickety  villa  and  pleasure-house,  from  the  cracked  windows 
of  which  may  be  seen  one  of  the  noblest  views  in  the  world. 
One  of  the  villas  the  guide  pointed  out  with  peculiar  exultation  : 
it  is  called  by  a grand  name  — Waterloo  Park,  and  has  a lodge, 
and  a gate,  and  a lield  of  a couple  of  acres,  and  belongs  to  a 
young  gentleman  who,  being  able  to  write  Waterloo  Park  on  his 
card,  succeeded  in  carryiiig  otf  a }^oung  London  heiress  with  a 
hundred  thousand  pounds.  The  3’oung  couple  had  just  arrived, 
and  one  of  them  must  have  been  rather  astonished,  no  doubt, 
at  the  “park.”  But  what  will  not  love  do?  With  love  and 
a hundred  thousand  pounds,  a cottage  may  be  made  to  look 
like  a castle,  and  a park  of  two  acres  ma}'  be  brought  to  extend 
for  a mile.  The  night  began  now  to  fall,  wrapping  up  in  a 
sober  gray  liveiy  the  bay  and  mountains,  which  had  just  been 
so  gorgeous  in  sunset ; and  we  turned  our  backs  presently  upon 
the  bay,  and  the  villas  with  the  cracked  windows,  and  scaling 
a road  of  perpetual  ups  and  downs,  went  back  to  Westport. 
On  the  way  was  a prett}’  cemetery,  l}’ing  on  each  side  of  the 
road,  with  a ruined  chapel  for  the  ornament  of  one  division,  a 
holy  well  for  the  other.  In  the  holy  well  lives  a sacred  trout, 
whom  sick  peo[)le  come  to  consult,  and  who  operates  great 
cures  in  the  neighborhood.  If  the  patient  sees  the  trout  float- 
ing on  his  back,  he  dies  ; if  on  his  belly,  he  lives  ; or  vice  versa. 
The  little  spot  is  old,  ivy-grown,  and  picturesque,  and  I can’t 
fancy  a better  [)lace  lor  a i)ilgi'im  to  kneel  and  saj'  his  beads  at. 

But  considering  the  wliole  country  goes  to  mass,  and  that 
the  })i’iests  can  govern  it  as  they  will,  teaching  what  shall  be 
believed  and  what  shall  be  not  credited,  would  it  not  be  well 
for  their  reverences,  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  forty- 
two,  to  discourage  these  absurd  lies  and  superstitions,  and  teach 
some  simple  truths  to  their  flock?  Leave  such  figments  to 
magazine-writers  and  ballad-makers  ; l)ut,  corbleu  ! it  makes 
one  indignant  to  think  that  peo[)le  in  the  United  Kingdom, 
where  a i)ress  is  at  work  and  good  sense  is  abroad,  and  clergy- 
men are  eager  to  educate  the  peo[)le,  should  countenance  such 
savage  superstitions  and  silly,  grovelling  heathenisms. 

The  chapel  is  before  the  inn  where  I resided,  and  on  Sunday, 
from  a very  early  hour,  the  side  of  the  street  was  thronged  with 
worshippers,  who  came  to  attend  the  various  services.  Nor 
are  the  Catholics  the  only  devout  people  of  this  remote  district. 
There  is  a large  Presbjderian  church  very  well  attended,  as  was 
the  Established  Church  service  in  the  pretty  cliurch  in  the  park. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


199 


There  was  no  organ,  but  the  clerk  and  a choir  of  children  sang 
hymns  sweetly  and  trnl}^ ; and  a charity  sermon  being  preached 
for  the  benelit  of  the  diocesan  schools,  I saw  inanj'  pound-notes 
in  the  plate,  showing  that  the  Protestants  here  were  as  ardent  as 
their  Roman  Catholic  brethren.  The  sermon  was  extempore, 
as  usual,  according  to  the  prevailing  taste  here.  dTie  preacher 
1)3'  putting  aside  his  sermon-book  may  gain  in  warmth,  which 
we  don’t  want,  but  lose  in  reason,  which  we  do.  If  I were 
Defender  of  the  Faith,  1 would  issue  an  order  to  all  priests  and 
deacons  to  take  to  the  book  again  ; weighing  well,  before  the3’’ 
uttered  it,  every  word  they  pro[)osed  to  sa3'  upon  so  great  a 
subject  as  that  of  religion  ; and  mistrusting  that  dangerous 
facility  given  by  active  jaws  and  a hot  imagination.  Reverend 
divines  have  adoi)ted  this  habit,  and  keep  us  for  an  hour  lis- 
tening to  what  might  well  be  told  in  ten  minutes.  They  are 
wondrously  fluent,  considering  all  things  ; and  though  I have 
tieard  many  a sentence  begun  whereof  tlie  speaker  did  not  evi- 
ilentl}'  know  the  conclusion,  j’et,  somehow  or  other,  he  has 
always  managed  to  get  through  the  paragraph  without  aii3' 
Jiiatus,  except  perhaps  in  the  sense.  And  as  far  as  I can  re- 
mark, it  is  not  calm,  plain,  downright  preachers  who  preserve 
the  extemporaneous  S3'stem  for  the  most  part,  but  pompous 
orators,  indulging  in  all  the  cheap  gi’aces  of  rhetoric  — exag- 
gerating words  and  feelings  to  make  effect,  and  dealing  in  pious 
caricature.  Church-goers  become  excited  b}'  this  loud  talk  and 
captivating  manner,  and  can’t  go  back  afterwards  to  a sober 
discourse  read  out  of  a grave  old  sermon-book,  appealing  to  the 
reason  and  the  gentle  feelings,  instead  of  to  the  passions  and 
the  imagination.  Beware  of  too  much  talk,  O parsons  ! If  a 
man  is  to  give  an  account  of  every  idle  word  he  utters,  for  what 
a number  of  such  loud  nothings,  windy  emphatic  tropes  and 
metaphors,  spoken,  not  for  God’s  gloiy,  but  the  preacher’s,  will 
many  a cushion-thumper  have  to  answer ! And  this  rebuke 
may  properl}'  find  a place  here,  because  the  clergyman  bj'  whose 
discourse  it  was  elicited  is  not  of  the  eloquent  dramatic  sort, 
but  a gentleman,  it  is  said,  remarkable  for  old-fashioned  learn- 
ing and  quiet  habits,  that  do  not  seem  to  be  to  the  taste  of  the 
many  boisterous  young  clergy  of  the  present  day. 

The  Catholic  chapel  was  built  before  their  graces  the  most 
reverend  lord  archbishops  came  into  fashion.  It  is  large  and 
gloom}',  with  one  or  two  attempts  at  ornament  by  way  of  pic- 
tures at  the  altars,  and  a good  inscription  warning  the  in-comer, 
in  a few  bold  words,  of  the  sacredness  of  the  place  he  stands  in. 
Bare  feet  bore  away  thousands  of  people  who  came  to  pray 


20J 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


there  : there  were  numbers  of  smart  equipages  for  the  rieher 
Protestant  congregation.  Strolling  about  the  town  in  the  balm}^ 
summer  evening,  I heard  the  sweet  tones  of  a h}^mn  from  the 
people  in  the  Presbyterian  pra3ing-house.  Indeed,  the  country 
is  full  of  piet}q  and  a warm,  sincere,  undoubting  devotion. 

On  week-days  the  street  before  the  chapel  is  scarce!}*  less 
crowded  than  on  the  Sabbath  : l)ut  it  is  with  women  and  children 
juerely  ; for  a stream  bordered  with  lime-trees  runs  pleasanth* 
down  the  street,  and  hither  come  innumerable  girls  to  wash, 
while  the  children  make  dirt-pies  and  look  on.  Wilkie  was  here 
some  3*ears  since,  and  the  place  affords  a great  deal  of  amuse- 
ment to  the  painter  of  character.  Sketching,  tant  hien  que  mal^ 
the  bridge  and  the  trees,  and  some  of  the  n3*mphs  engaged  in  the 
stream,  the  writer  became  an  object  of  no  small  attention  ; and 
at  least  a score  of  dirt}*  brats  left  their  dirt-pies  to  look  on,  the 
barelegged  washing-girls  grinning  from  the  water. 

One,  a regular  rustic  beauty,  whose  face  and  figure  would 
have  made  the  fortune  of  a frontispiece,  seemed  particularh* 
amused  and  aga^ante ; and  I walked  round  to  get  a drawing  of 
her  fresh  jolly  face  : but  directly  I came  near  she  pulled  her 
gown  over  her  head,  and  resolutely  turned  round  her  back ; 
and,  as  that  [)art  of  her  person  did  not  seem  to  differ  in  char- 
acter from  llie  backs  of  the  rest  of  Europe,  there  is  no  need 
of  taking  its  likeness. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  PATTERN  AT  CROAGHPATRICK. 

On  the  Pattern  day,  however,  the  washerwomen  and  children 
had  all  disappeared  — nay,  the  stream,  too,  seemed  to  be  gone 
out  of  town.  There  was  a report  current,  also,  that  on  the 
occasion  of  the  Pattern,  six  hundred  teetotalers  had  sworn  to 
revolt ; and  I fear  that  it  was  the  hope  of  witnessing  this  awful 
rebellion  which  induced  me  to  stay  a couple  of  days  at  West- 
port.  The  Pattern  was  commenced  on  the  Sunday,  and  the 
priests  going  up  to  the  mountain  took  care  that  there  should  be 
no  sports  nor  dancing  on  that  day  ; but  that  the  people  should 
only  content  themselves  with  the  performance  of  what  are  called 
religious  duties.  Religious  duties  ! Heaven  help  us  1 If  these 


THE  mijsli  sKEacii  book. 


201 

roveroiid  gvntlemeii  were  worsliippers  of  Moloch  or  Baal,  or 
aipy  deit}’  whose  honor  demanded  bloodshed,  and  savage  rites, 
and  degradation,  and  torture,  one  might  fane}^  them  encour- 
aging the  people  to  the  disgusting  [)enances  the  poor  things 
here  |)erform.  But  it’s  too  liard  to  think  that  in  our  day’s  any 
[)riests  of  any  religion  should  be  found  superintending  such  a 
liidc'ous  series  of  self-sacrifices  as  are,  it  a[)[>ears,  performed  on 
this  hill. 

A friend  who  ascended  the  hill  brought  down  the  following 
account  of  it.  The  ascent  is  a very  steep  and  hard  one,  he 
says  ; but  it  was  performed  in  company  of  thousands  of  })copie 
wlio  were  making  their  way’  barefoot  to  the  several  “ stations  ” 
upon  the  lull. 

‘^The  first  station  consists  of  one  heap  of  stones,  round 
which  they’  must  walk  seven  times,  casting  a stone  on  the  heap 
each  time,  and  before  and  after  every’  stone’s  throw  saying 
u prayer. 

“ Tiic  second  station  is  on  the  top  of  the  mountain.  Here 
there  is  a great  altar — a shapeless  heap  of  stones.  The  poor 
wretches  crawl  on  their  knees  into  this  place,  say’  fifteen  prayers, 
and  after  going  round  the  entire  top  of  the  mountain  fifteen 
times,  say  fifteen  prayers  again. 

“The  third  station  is  near  the  bottom  of  the  mountain  at 
the  further  side  from  Westport.  It  consists  of  three  heaps. 
The  penitents  must  go  seven  times  round  these  collectively’,  and 
seven  times  afterwards  round  each  individually’,  saying  a pray’er 
before  and  after  each  jirogress.” 

My  informant  describes  the  people  as  coming  away  from 
this  “ frightful  exhibition  suffering  severe  pain,  wounded  and 
bleeding  in  the  knees  and  feet,  and  some  of  the  women  shriek- 
ing with  the  })ain  of  their  wounds.”  Fancy  thousands  of  these 
bent  upon  their  work,  and  priests  standing  by  to  encourage 
them!  — For  shame,  for  shame.  If  all  the  popes,  cardinals, 
bishops,  hermits,  priests,  and  deacons  that  ever  lived  were  to 
come  forward  and  preach  tliis  as  a truth  — that  to  please  God 
you  must  macerate  your  body,  that  the  sight  of  y’our  agonies 
is  welcome  to  Him,  and  that  y’Our  blood,  groans,  and  degrada- 
tion find  favor  in  His  eyes,  I would  not  believe  them.  Better 
have  over  a company’  of  Fakeers  at  once,  and  set  the  Suttee 
going. 

Of  these  tortures,  however,  I had  not  the  fortune  to  witness 
a sight : for  going  towards  the  mountain  for  the  first  four  miles, 
the  only’  convey’ance  I could  find  was  half  the  pony’  of  an  honest 
sailor,  who  said,  when  applied  to,  “I  tell  y’ou  what  I do  wid 


202 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


3''ou ; I give  3^0 u a spell  about.”  But,  as  it  turned  out  we  were 
going  different  wa3"s,  this  help  was  but  a small  one.  A car 
with  a spare  seat,  however,  (there  were  hundreds  of  others 
quite  full,  and  scores  of  rattling  country-carts  covered  with 
people,  and  thousands  of  bare  legs  trudging  along  the  road,)  — 
a car  with  a spare  seat  passed  by  at  two  miles  from  the  Pat- 
tern, and  that  just  in  time  to  get  comfortabl3^  wet  through  on 
arriving  there.  The  whole  mountain  was  enveloped  in  mist ; 
and  we  could  nowhere  see  thirt3^  yards  before  us.  The  women 
walked  forward,  with  their  gowns  over  their  heads  ; the  men 
sauntered  on  in  the  rain,  with  the  utmost  indifference  to  it. 
The  car  presentl3'  came  to  a cottage,  the  court  in  front  of  which 
was  black  with  two  hundred  horses,  and  where  as  maiw  drivers 
were  jangling  and  bawling  ; and  here  we  were  told  to  descend. 
You  had  to  go  over  a wall  and  across  a brook,  and  behold 
the  Pattern. 

The  pleasures  of  the  poor  people  — for  after  the  business  on 
the  mountain  came  the  dancing  and  love-making  at  its  foot  — 
were  wofull3"  spoiled  b3'  the  rain,  which  rendered  dancing  on 
the  grass  impossible  ; nor  were  the  tents  big  enough  for  that 
exercise.  Indeed,  the  whole  sight  was  as  dismal  and  half-sav- 
age a one  as  I have  seen.  There  ma3^  have  been  fift3^  of  these 
tents  squatted  round  a plain  of  the  most  brilliant  green  grass, 
behind  which  the  mist-curtains  seemed  to  rise  immediately; 
for  3’ou  could  not  even  see  the  mountain-side  beyond  them. 
Here  was  a great  crowd  of  men  and  women,  all  ugl3",  as  the 
fortune  of  the  da3"  would  have  it  (for  the  sagacious  reader  has, 
no  doubt,  remarked  that  there  are  ugl3^  and  pretty  da3's  in  life) . 
Stalls  were  spread  about,  whereof  the  owners  were  shrieking 
out  the  praises  of  their  wares  — great  coarse  damp-looking 
bannocks  of  bread  for  the  most  part,  or,  maydiap,  a dirty  col- 
lection of  pigsfeet  and  such  refreshments.  Several  of  the 
[booths  professed  to  belong  to  “confectioners”  from  Westport 
or  Castlebar,  the  confectionery  consisting  of  huge  biscuits  and 
doubtful-looking  ginger-beer  — ginger-ale  or  gingeretta  it  is 
called  in  this  countrv,  bv  a fanciful  people  who  love  the  finest 
titles.  Add  to  these,  caldrons  containing  water  for  “tay”  at 
the  doors  of  the  booths,  other  pots  full  of  masses  of  pale  legs 
of  mutton  (the  owner  “prodding,”  eveiy  now  and  then,  for  a 
bit,  and  holding  it  up  and  asking  the  passenger  to  biy).  In 
the  booths  it  was  impossible  to  stand  upright,  or  to  see  much, 
on  account  of  smoke.  Men  and  women  were  crowded  in  these 
rude  tents,  huddled  together,  and  disappearing  in  the  darkness. 
Owners  came  bustling  out  to  replenish  the  empty  water-jugs : 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


203 


and  landladies  stood  outside  in  tlie  rain  calling  strenuously 
upon  all  passers-by  to  enter.  Here  is  a design  taken  from  one 
of  the  booths,  presenting  ingeniousl}’  an  outside  and  an  inside 
view  of  the  same  place  — an  artifice  seldom  practised  in 
pictures. 


Meanwhile,  high  up  on  the  invisible  mountain,  the  people 
were  dragging  their  bleeding  knees  from  altar  to  altar,  flinging 
stones,  and  muttering  some  endless  litanies,  with  the  priests 
standing  1)}^  I think  1 was  not  sorry  that  the  rain,  and  the 
^•are  of  my  precious  health,  prevented  me  Irom  mounting  a 
severe  hill  to  witness  a sight  that  could  onl}^  have  caused  one 
to  be  shocked  and  ashamed  that  servants  of  God  should  en- 
courage it.  The  road  home  was  veiy  pleasant ; everybody' 
was  wet  through,  but  everybod3'  was  happjy  and  by  some  mira- 
cle we  were  seven  on  the  car.  There  was  the  honest  English- 
man in  the  military  cap,  who  sang  “The  sea,  the  hopen  sea’s 
my  ’ome,”  although  not  any  one  of  the  compaiy^  called  ipron 
him  for  that  air.  Then  the  music  was  taken  up  b}^  a good- 
natured  lass  from  Castlebar  ; then  the  Plnglishman  again,  “With 
l)urnished  brand  and  musketoon  ; ” and  there  was  no  end  of 
pushing,  pinching,  squeezing,  and  laughing.  The  Englishman, 
especially,  had  a favorite  yell,  with  which  he  saluted  and  aston- 
ished all  cottagers,  passengers,  cars,  that  we  met  or  overtook. 
Presentb"  came  prancing  by  two  dandies,  who  were  especially 
frightened  by  the  noise.  “ Thim’s  two  tailors  from  Westport,” 
said  the  canuan,  grinning  with  all  his  might.  Come,  gat  out 


204 


TilE  misil  SKETCH  BOOK. 


of  the  way  there,  gat  along  ! ” piped  a small  English  voiee  from 
above  somewhere.  1 looked  up,  and  saw  a little  creature 
perched  on  the  top  of  a tandem,  which  he  was  driving  with  the 
most  knowing  air  — a dreadful  }’Oung  hero,  with  a white  hat, 
and  a white  face,  and  a blue  bird’s-eye  neck-cloth.  He  was  five 
feet  high,  if  an  inch,  an  ensign,  and  sixteen  ; and  it  was  a 
great  comfort  to  thiiik,  in  case  of  danger  or  riot,  that  one  of 
his  years  and  personal  strength  was  at  hand  to  give  help. 

“ Thini’s  the  afficers,”  said  the  carman,  as  the  tandem 
wheeled  by,  a small  groom  quivering  on  behind  — and  the  car- 
man spoke  with  the  greatest  respect  this  time.  Two  da}'s 
before,  on  arriving  at  Westport,  I had  seen  the  same  equipage 
at  the  door  of  the  inn  — where  for  a moment  there  happened 
to  be  no  waiter  to  receive  me.  So,  shouldering  a carpet-bag, 
I walked  into  the  inn-hall,  and  asked  a gentleman  standing 
there  where  was  the  coffee-room  ? It  was  the  military  tandem- 
driving youth,  who  with  much  grace  looked  up  in  m}"  face,  and 
said  calml}q  “ I daivnt  knaw.''  I believe  the  little  creature  had 
just  been  dining  in  the  very  room  — and  so  present  my  best 
com[)liments  to  him. 

The  Guide-book  will  inform  the  traveller  of  many  a beautiful 
spot  which  lies  in  the  neighborhood  of  Westport,  and  w^hich  I 
had  not  the  time  to  visit ; but  1 must  not  take  leave  of  the 
excellent  little  inn  without  speaking  once  more  of  its  extreme 
comfort ; nor  of  the  [)lace  itself,  without  another  parting  word 
regarding  its  beauty.  It  forms  an  event  in  one’s  life  to  have 
seen  that  place,  so  beantifnl  is  it,  and  so  unlike  all  other 
beauties  that  1 know  of.  Were  such  beauties  lying  upon  Eng- 
lish shores  it  would  be  a world’s  wonder : perhaps,  if  it  were 
on  the  IMediterrancan,  or  the  Baltic,  Phiglish  travellers  would 
Hock  to  it  bv  hundreds  ; why  not  come  and  see  it  in  Ireland  ! 
Ilemote  as  the  spot  is,  Westport  is  only  two  days’  journey 
from  London  now,  and  lies  in  a countiy  far  more  strange  to 
most  travellers  than  France  or  Germany  can  be» 


TilE  ilifsn  feKKTCIi  COOK. 


205 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

FROM  WESTPORT  TO  BALLINASLOE. 

The  mail-coach  took  us  next  day  b}'  Castlebar  and  Tuam 
to  Calliiiasloe,  a joiirne}'  of  near  eighty  miles.  The  country 
is  int('i-t^i)crsed  with  innumerable  seats  belonging  to  the  Clakes, 
the  Crowns,  and  the  Lynches ; and  we  passed  man}'  large 
domains  belonging  to  bankrupt  lords  and  fugitive  squires,  with 
line  lodges  adorned  with  moss  and  batU'red  windows,  and 
parks  where,  il‘  the  grass  was  growing  on  the  roads,  on  the 
other  hand  the  trees  had  been  weeded  out  of  the  grass.  About 
these  seats  and  their  owners  the  guard  — an  honest,  shrewd 
fellow  — had  all  the  gossip  to  tell.  The  joll}' guard  himself 
was  a ruin,  it  turned  out:  he  told  me  his  grandfather  was  a 
man  of  large  proi)erty  ; his  father,  he  said,  kept  a pack  of 
hounds,  and  had  spent  eveiything  by  the  time  he,  the  guard, 
was  sixteen  : so  the  lad  made  interest  to  get  a mail-car  to 
drive,  whence  he  had  been  promoted  to  the  guard’s  seat,  and 
now  for  forty  }'ears  had  occu[)ied  it,  travelling  eighty  miles,  and 
earning  seven-and-two})ence  every  day  of  his  life.  He  had 
l)cen  once  ill,  he  said,  for  three  days  ; and  if  a man  may  be 
judged  by  ten  hours’  talk  with  him,  there  were  few  more 
shrewd,  resolute,  simple-minded  men  to  l)e  found  on  the  out- 
side of  any  coaches  or  the  inside  of  any  houses  in  Ireland. 

During  the  first  five-and-twenty  miles  of  the  journey,  — for 
the  day  was  very  sunny  and  bi’ight,  — Croaghpatrick  kept  us 
companv;  and,  seated  with  your  back  to  the  horses,  you  could 
see,  ‘‘on  the  left,  that  vast  aggregation  of  mountains  which 
stretches  southwards  to  the  Bay  of  Galwa}' ; on  the  right,  that 
gigantic  assemblage  which  sweeps  in  circular  outline  northward 
to  Killule.”  Somewhere  amongst  those  hills  the  great  John 
Tuam  was  born,  whose  mansion  and  cathedral  are  to  be  seen 
in  Tuam  town,  but  whose  fame  is  spread  everywhere.  To 
arrive  at  Castlebar,  we  go  over  the  undulatiug  valley  which  lies 
between  the  mountain  of  Joyce  country  and  Erris  ; and  the 
first  object  which  }'ou  see  on  entering  the  town  is  a stately 
Gothic  castle  that  stands  at  a short  distance  from  it. 

On  the  gate  of  the  statel}'  Gothic  castle  was  written  an 
inscription  not  veiy  hospitable:  “without  beware,  within 
AMEND  just  beneath  which  is  an  iron  crane  of  neat  construe-* 


206 


THE  imsii  SKETCH  BOOK. 


tion.  The  castle  is  the  count}-  gaol,  and  the  iron  crane  is  the 
gallows  of  the  district.  The  town  seems  neat  and  lively  : there 
is  a fine  church,  a grand  barracks  (celebrated  as  the  residence 
of  the  3^oung  fellow  with  the  bird’s-eye  neck-cloth),  a club,  and 
a Whig  and  Toiy  newspaper.  The  road  hence  to  Tuam  is  very 
prett}^  and  lively,  from  the  number  of  country  seats  along  the 
wa}%  giving  comfortable  shelter  to  more  Blakes,  Browns,  and 
L}mches. 

In  the  cottages,  the  inhabitants  looked  healthy  and  ros}^  in 
their  rags,  and  the  cots  themselves  in  the  sunshine  almost  com- 
fortable. After  a couple  of  months  in  the  country,  the  stran- 
ger’s eye  grows  somewhat  accustomed  to  the  rags  : they  do  not 
frighten  him  as  at  first ; the  people  who  wear  them  look  for  the 
most  part  healthy  enough  : especiall}'  the  small  children  — those 
who  can  scarcely  totter,  and  are  sitting  shading  their  eyes  at 
the  door,  and  leaving  the  unfinished  dirt-pie  to  shout  as  the 
coach  passes  by  — are  as  health}^  a looking  race  as  one  will 
often  see.  Nor  can  any  one  pass  through  the  land  without 
being  touched  by  the  extreme  love  of  children  among  the  peo- 
ple : they  swarm  ever}  where,  and  the  whole  country  rings  with 
cries  of  affection  towards  the  children,  with  the  songs  of 
young  ragged  nurses  dandling  babies  on  their  knees,  and  warn- 
ings of  mothei's  to  Ikffsey  to  come  out  of  the  mud,  or  Norey  to 
get  olf  the  pig’s  back. 

At  Tuam  the  coach  stopped  exactly  for  fourteen  minutes  and 
a half,  during  which  time  those  who  wished  might  dine  : but 
instead,  1 had  the  [)lcasure  of  inspecting  a very  mouldy,  dirty 
town,  and  made  my  way  to  the  Catholic  cathedral  — a very 
liandsomc  edifice  indeed  ; handsome  without  and  within,  and 
of  the  Gothic  sort.  Over  the  door  is  a huge  coat  of  arms  sur- 
mounted 1)}'  a cardinal’s  hat  — the  arms  of  the  see,  no  doubt, 
quartered  with  John  Tuam’s  own  patrimonial  coat;  and  that 
was  a frieze  coat,  from  all  accounts,  passably  ragged  at  the 
elbows.  Well,  he  must  be  a poor  wag  who  could  sneer  at  an 
old  coat,  l)ecause  it  was  old  and  poor ; but  if  a man  changes 
it  for  a tawdry  gimcrack  suit  bedizened  with  twopenny  tinsel, 
and  struts  about  calling  himself  his  grace  and  my  lord,  when 
may  we  laugh  if  not  then?  There  is  something  simple  in  the 
way  in  which  these  good  [)eople  belord  their  clergymen,  and 
respect  titles  real  or  sham.  Take  any  Dublin  paper,  — a 
couple  of  columns  of  it  are  sure  to  be  filled  with  movements 
of  the  small  great  men  of  the  w'orld.  Accounts  from  Derry- 
nane  state  that  the  Right  Honorable  the  Lord  Mayor  is  in 
good  health  — his  lordship  went  out  with  liis  bengles  yester- 


THE  mrSIl  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Bor 

da}' or  “ his  Grace  the  Most  Reverend  the  Lord  Archbishop 
of  Bally  whack,  assisted  by  the  Right  Reverend  the  Lord 
Bishops  of  Trincomalee  and  Ilippopotamns,  assisted,”  &c.  ; 
or  “ Colonel  Tims,  of  Castle  Tims,  and  lady,  have  quitted  the 
‘ Shelburne  Hotel,’  with  a part}'  for  Kilballybathershins,  where 
the  august  * party  propose  to  enjoy  a few  days’  shrimp-fish- 
ing,” — and  so  on.  Our  people  are  not  witty  and  keen  of  per- 
ceiving the  ridiculous,  like  the  Irish ; but  the  bluntness  and 
honest}'  of  the  English  have  wellnigh  kicked  the  fashionable 
humbug  down  ; and  except  perhaps  among  footmen  and  about 
Baker  Street,  this  curiosity  about  the  aristocracy  is  wearing 
fast  away.  Have  the  Irish  so  much  reason  to  respect  their 
lords  that  they  should  so  chronicle  all  their  movements  ; and 
not  only  admire  real  lords,  but  make  sham  ones  of  their  own 
to  admire  them‘d 

There  is  no  object  of  special  mark  upon  the  road  from  Tuam 
to  Ballinasloe  — the  country  being  Hat  for  the  most  part,  and 
the  noble  Galway  and  Mayo  mountains  having  disappeared  at 
length  — until  you  come  to  a glimpse  of  Old  England  in  the 
pretty  village  of  Ahascragh.  An  old  oak-tree  grows  in  the 
neat  street,  the  houses  are  as  trim  and  white  as  eye  can  desire, 
and  about  the  church  and  the  town  are  handsome  plantations, 
forming  on  the  whole  such  a picture  of  comfort  and  plenty  as 
is  rarely  to  be  seen  in  the  part  of  Ireland  I have  traversed. 
All  these  wonders  have  been  wrought  by  the  activity  of  an 
excellent  resident  agent.  There  was  a countryman  on  the 
coach  deploring  that,  through  family  circumstances,  this  gen- 
tleman should  have  been  dispossessed  of  his  agency,  and  declar- 
ing that  the  village  had  already  begun  to  deteriorate  in  conse- 
quence. The  marks  of  such  decay  were  not,  however,  visible 
— at  least  to  a new  comer ; and,  being  reminded  of  it,  I in- 
dulged in  many  patriotic  longings  for  England  : as  ever}'  Eng- 
lishman does  when  he  is  travelling  out  of  the  country  which  he 
is  always  so  willing  to  quit. 

That  a place  should  instantly  begin  to  deteriorate  because 
a certain  individual  w'as  removed  from  it  — that  cottagers 
should  become  thriftless,  and  houses  dirty,  and  house-windows 
cracked,  — all  these  are  points  which  public  economists  may 
ruminate  over,  and  can’t  fail  to  give  the  carelessest  traveller 
much  matter  for  painful  reflection.  How  is  it  that  the  presence 
of  one  man  more  or  less  should  affect  a set  of  people  come  to 
years  of  manhood,  and  knowing  that  they  have  their  duty  to 

* This  epithet  is  applied  to  the  party  of  a Colonel  somebody,  in  a 
publin  paper. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


208 

do  ? Why  should  a man  at  Ahascragh  let  his  home  go  to  ruin, 
and  stuff  his  windows  with  ragged  breeches  instead  of  glass, 
because  Mr.  Smith  is  agent  in  place  of  Mr.  Jones?  Is  he  a 
child  that  won’t  work  unless  the  schoolmaster  be  at  hand?  or 
are  we  to  suppose  with  the  “ Repealers,”  that  the  cause  of  all 
this  degradation  and  miser}^  is  the  intolerable  tyranny  of  the 
sister  countiy,  and  the  pain  which  poor  Ireland  has  been  made  to 
endure  ? This  is  veiy  well  at  the  Corn  Exchange,  and  among 
patriots  after  dinner;  but,  after  all" granting  the  grievance  of 
the  franchise  (though  it  ma}^  not  be  unfair  to  presume  that  a man 
who  has  not  strength  of  mind  enough  to  mend  his  own  breeches 
or  his  own  windows  wall  alwa3^s  be  the  tool  of  one  party  or 
another) , there  is  no  Inquisition  set  up  in  the  countr}" : the 
law  tries  to  defend  the  people  as  much  as  they  will  allow ; the 
odious  tithe  has  even  been  whisked  off  from  their  shoulders  to 
tlie  landlords’ ; the}^  may  live  pretty  much  as  the}^  like.  Is  it 
not  too  monstrous  to  howl  about  English  tyranny  and  suffering 
Ireland,  and  call  for  a Stephen’s  Green  Parliament  to  make 
tlie  country  quiet  and  the  people  industrious  ? The  people  are 
not  politicalty  worse  treated  than  their  neighbors  in  England. 
The  priests  and  landlords,  if  the}'  chose  to  co-operate,  might 
do  more  for  the  country  now  than  any  kings  or  laws  could. 
M"hat  you  want  here  is  not  a Catholic  or  Protestant  party,  but 
an  Irish  party. 

In  the  midst  of  these  reflections,  and  by  what  the  reader 
will  doubtless  think  a blessed  interruption,  w^e  came  in  sight  of 
the  town  of  Ballinasloe  and  its  “ gash  lamps,”  which  a fellow- 
passenger  did  not  fail  to  point  out  with  admiration.  The  road- 
menders,  however,  did  not  appear  to  think  that  light  was  by 
any  means  necessary ; for,  having  been  occupied,  in  the  morn- 
ing, in  digging  a fine  hole  upon  the  highway,  previous  to  some 
altei-ations  to  be  effected  there,  they  had  left  their  work  at  sun- 
down, without  any  lamp  to  warn  coming  travellers  of  the  hole 
— which  we  only  escaped  by  a wonder.  The  papers  have  much 
such  another  story.  In  the  Galway  and  Ballinasloe  coach  a 
horse  on  the  road  suddenly  fell  down  and  died ; the  coachman 
drove  his  coach  unicorn-fashion  into  town  ; and,  as  for  the  dead 
liorse,  of  course  he  left  it  on  the  road,  at  the  place  where  it  fell, 
and  where  another  coach  coming  up  was  upset  over  it,  bones 
broken,  passengers  maimed,  coach  smashed.  By  heavens  ! the 
tyranny  of  England  is  unendurable ; and  I have  no  doubt  it 
had  a hand  in  upsetting  that  coach. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  ROOK. 


209 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

BALLINASLOE  TO  DUBLIN. 

During  the  cattle- fair  the  celebrated  town  of  Balliiiasloe  's 
thronged  with  farmers  from  all  parts  of  the  kingdom  — the 
cattle  being  pictnresqiieh'  exhibited  in  the  park  of  the  noble 
proprietor  of  the  town,  Lord  Clancarty.  As  it  was  not  fair- 
time the  town  did  not  seem  particnlarlj  busy,  nor  was  there 
much  to  remark  in  it,  except  a church,  and  a magnificent 
lunatic  asylum,  that  lies  outside  the  town  on  the  Dublin  road, 
and  is  as  handsome  and  stateH  as  a palace.  I think  tlie  beggars 
were  more  plenteous  and  more  loathsome  here  than  almost  an}'- 
where.  To  one  hideous  wretch  1 was  obliged  to  give  money  to 
go  away,  which  he  did  for  a moment,  only  to  obtrude  liis  horrible 
face  directly  afterwards  half  eaten  away  with  disease.  “A 
penny  for  the  sake  of  poor  little  Mery,”  said  another  woman, 
who  had  a baby  sleeping  on  her  withered  breast ; and  how  can 
any  one  who  has  a little  Mery  at  home  resist  such  an  appeal? 
“ Idty  the  poor  blind  man!”  roared  a respectably  dressed 
grenadier  of  a fellow.  1 told  him  to  go  to  the  gentleman  with 
a red  neck-cloth  and  fur  cap  (a  young  buck  from  Trinity  College) 
— to  whom  the  blind  man  with  much  simplicity  immediately 
stepped  oyer ; and  as  for  the  rest  of  the  beggars,  what  pen  or 
pencil  could  describe  their  hideous  leering  flattery,  their  cring- 
ing, swindling  humor  1 

The  inn,  like  the  town,  being  made  to  accommodate  the 
periodical  crowds  of  yisitors  who  attended  the  fair,  presented 
in  their  absence  rather  a faded  and  desolate  look  ; and  in  spite 
of  the  live-stock  for  which  the  place  is  famous,  the  only  portion 
of  their  produce  which  I could  get  to  my  share,  after  twelve 
hours’  fasting  and  an  hour’s  bell-ringing  and  scolding,  was  one 
very  lean  mutton-chop  and  one  very  small  damp  kidney,  brought 
in  by  an  old  tottering  w^aiter  to  a table  spread  in  a huge  black 
coffee-room,  dimly  lighted  by  one  little  jet  of  gas. 

As  this  only  served  very  faintly  to  light  up  the  above  ban- 
quet, the  waiter,  upon  remonstrance,  proceeded  to  light  the 
other  hec ; but  the  lamp  was  sulky,  and  upon  this  attempt  to 
force  it,  as  it  were,  refused  to  act  altogether,  and  went  out. 
The  big  room  was  then  accommodated  with  a couple  of  yellow 
mutton-candles.  There  was  a neat,  handsome,  correct  young 


210 


THE  iiUsll  SKETCH  EOOK. 


lujglish  officer  wiirming  his  slippers  at  the  fire,  and  opposite 
him  sat  a worth}^  gentleman,  with  a glass  of  “mingled  mate- 
rials,” discoursing  to  him  in  a veiy  friendly  and  confidential 
way. 

As  I don’t  know  the  gentleman’s  name,  and  as  it  is  not  at 
all  improbable,  from  the  situation  in  which  he  was,  that  he  has 
(juite  forgotten  the  night’s  conversation,  I hope  there  will  be 
no  breach  of  confidence  in  recalling  some  part  of  it.  The 
speaker  was  dressed  in  deep  black  — w'orn,  however,  with  that 
degage  air  [leculiar  to  the  votaries  of  Bacchus,  or  that  nameless 
god,  offspring  of  Bacchus  and  Ceres,  who  may  have  invented 
the  noble  liquor  called  whiske}'.  It  was  fine  to  see  the  easy 
folds  in  which  his  neck-cloth  confined  a shirt-collar  moist  with 
the  generous  drops  that  trickled  from  the  chin  above,  — its 
little  percentage  upon  the  punch.  There  was  a fine  dashing 
black  satin  waistcoat  that  called  for  its  share,  and  generousl}" 
disdained  to  be  buttoned.  I think  this  is  the  only  specimen  I 
have  seen  yet  of  the  personage  still  so  frequently  described  in 
the  Irish  novels  — the  careless  drinking  squire  — the  Irish  Will 
Whimble. 

“ Sir,”  says  he,  “as  I w\as  telling  you  before  this  gentleman 
came  in  (from  Westport,  I presliume,  sir,  by  the  mail?  and  my 
service  to  you!),  the  butchers  in  Tchume  (Tuam)  — where  I 
live,  and  shall  be  hap[)3^  to  see  }'ou  and  give  you  a shakedown, 
a cut  of  mutton,  and  the  use  of  as  good  a brace  of  pointers  as 
ever  you  shot  over  — the  butchers  sa}"  to  me,  whenever  I look 
ill  at  their  shops  and  ask  for  a joint  of  meat  — the}"  say  : ‘ Take 
down  that  quarther  o’  mutton,  boy  ; it’s  no  use  weighing  it  for 
Mr.  Bodkin.  lie  can  tell  with  an  eye  what’s  the  weight  of  it 
to  an  ounce  I ’ And  so,  sir,  I can  ; and  I’d  make  a bet  to  go 
into  any  market  in  Dublin,  Tchume,  Ballinasloe,  where  you 
please,  and  just  by  looking  at  the  meat  decide  its  weight.” 

At  the  [lause,  during  which  the  gentleman  here  designated 
Bodkin  drank  off  his  “ materials,”  the  young  officer  said  gravely 
that  this  was  a very  rare  and  valuable  accomplishment,  and 
thanked  him  for  the  invitation  to  Tchume. 

The  honest  gentleman  proceeded  with  his  personal  memoirs  ; 
and  (with  a charming  modesty  that  authenticated  his  tale, 
while  it  interested  his  hearers  for  the  teller)  he  called  for  a fresh 
tumbler,  and  began  discoursing  about  horses.  “Them  I don’t 
know,”  says  he,  confessing  the  fact  at  once ; “ or,  if  I do,  I’ve 
been  always  so  unlucky  with  them  that  it’s  as  good  as  if  I 
didn’t. 

‘ * To  give  you  an  idea  of  my  ill-fortune  : Me  brother-’n-law 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


211 


Burke  once  sent  me  three  colts  of  his  to  sell  at  this  very  fair  of 
Ballinasloe,  and  for  all  I could  do  I could  only  get  a bid  for 
one  of ’em,  and  sold  her  for  sixteen  pounds.  And  d’ye  know 
what  that  mare  was,  sir?  ” says  Mr.  Bodkin,  giving  a thump  that 
made  the  spoon  jump  out  of  the  punch-glass  for  fright.  “ O’ye 
know  who  she  was?  she  was  Water- Wagtail,  sir, — Watek- 
AVhvGTAiL  ! She  won  fourteen  cups  and  plates  in  Ireland  before 
she  went  to  J^iver[)Ool ; and  you  know  what  she  did  there  V 
(We  said,  “ O ! (d' course.”)  Well,  sir,  the  man  who  bought 
her  from  me  sold  her  for  four  hunder’  guineas  ; and  in  England 
she  fetched  eight  hunder’  pounds. 

“Another  of  them  very  horses,  gentlemen  (Tim,  some  hot 
wather  — screeching  hot,  you  divil  — and  a stliroke  of  the 
limin)  — another  of  them  horses  that  1 was  refused  fifteen 
l)ound  for,  me  brother-in-law  sould  to  Sir  Bufford  Bufford  for 
a hunder’-and-fift}'  guineas.  IVasn’t  that  luck? 

“ WTdl,  sir.  Sir  Bulford  gives  Burke  his  bill  at  six  months, 
and  don’t  pay  it  when  it  come  jue.  A [)retty  pickle  Tom  Burke 
was  in,  as  I leave  ye  to  fancy,  for  he’d  paid  away  the  bill,  which 
he  thought  as  good  as  goold  ; and  sure  it  ought  to  be,  for  Sir 
Bulford  had  come  of  age  since  the  bill  was  drawn,  and  before 
it  was  due,  and,  as  1 needn’t  tell  you,  had  slipped  into  a very 
handsome  property. 

“ On  the  [)i‘otest  of  the  lull,  Burhe  goes  in  a fury  to  Gresliani’s 
in  Sackville  Street,  where  the  baronet  was  living,  and  (would 
ye  believe  it?)  the  latter  says  he  doesn’t  intend  to  meet  the  bill, 
on  the  score  that  he  was  a minor  when  he  gave  it.  On  which 
Burke  was  in  such  a rage  that  he  took  a horsewhip  and  vowed 
he’d  beat  the  baronet  to  a jelly,  and  post  him  in  every  club  in 
Dublin,  and  publish  every  circumstance  of  the  transaction.” 

“ It  does  seem  rather  a queer  one,”  sa3^s  one  of  Mr.  Bodkin’s 
hearers. 

“ Queer  indeed  : but  that’s  not  it,  you  see  ; for  Sir  Bufford 
is  as  honorable  a man  as  eve]-  lived  ; and  after  this  quarrel  he 
[)aid  Burke  his  money,  and  they’ve  been  warm  friends  ever 
since.  But  what  I want  to  show  }"e  is  our  infernal  luck.  Three 
months  before^  Sir  Rufford  had  sold  that  very  horse  for  three 
hunder’  guineas.” 

The  -worth}"  gentleman  had  just  ordered  in  a fresh  tumbler 
of  his  favorite  liquor,  when  we  wished  him  good-night,  and 
slept  by  no  means  the  worse,  because  the  bedroom  candle  was 
carried  by  one  of  the  prettiest  young  chambermaids  possible. 

Next  morning,  suri-ounded  by  a crowd  of  beggars  more 
filthy,  hideous,  and  importunate  than  any  I think  in  the  most 


9A2 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


favored  towns  of  the  south,  we  set  off,  a coach-load,  for  Dublin. 
A clergyman,  a guard,  a Scotch  farmer,  a butcher,  a book- 
seller’s hack,  a lad  bound  for  Ma^mooth  and  another  for  Trinity, 
made  a varied,  pleasant  party  enough,  where  each,  according 
to  his  lights,  had  something  to  sa}^ 

1 have  seldom  seen  a more  dismal  and  uninteresting  road 
than  that  which  we  now  took,  and  which  brought  us  through 
the  “old,  inconvenient,  ill-built,  and  ugty  town  of  Athlone.” 
The  painter  would  find  here,  however,  some  good  subjects  for 
his  sketch-book,  in  spite  of  the  commination  of  the  Guide- 
book. Ilere,  too,  great  improvements  are  taking  place  for  the 
Shannon  navigation,  which  will  render  the  town  not  so  incon- 
venient as  at  present  it  is  stated  to  be  ; and  hard  by  lies  a little 
village  that  is  known  and  loved  b}^  all  the  world  where  English 
is  spoken.  It  is  called  Lishoy,  but  its  real  name  is  Auburn, 
and  it  gave  birth  to  one  Noll  Goldsmith,  whom  Mr.  Boswell 
was  in  the  habit  of  despising  very  heartily.  At  the  Quaker 
town  of  Moate,  the  butcher  and  the  farmer  dropped  off,  the 
clergyman  went  inside,  and  their  places  were  filled  b^^  four 
Ma3'iioothians,  whose  vacation  was  just  at  an  end.  One  of 
them,  a freshman,  was  inside  the  coach  with  the  clerg3’man, 
and  told  him,  with  rather  a long  face,  of  the  dismal  discipline 
of  his  college.  They  are  not  allowed  to  quit  the  gates  (except 
on  general  .walks)  ; the}'  are  expelled  if  they  read  a newspaper  ; 
and  they  begin  term  with  “a  retreat”  of  a week,  which  time 
the}'  are  made  to  devote  to  silence,  and,  as  it  is  supposed,  to 
devotion  and  meditation. 

I must  say  the  young  fellows  drank  jfienty  of  whiskey  on  the 
road,  to  prepare  them  for  their  year’s  abstinence  ; and,  when  at 
length  arrived  in  the  miserable  village  of  Maynooth,  determined 
not  to  go  into  college  that  night,  l)ut  to  devote  the  evening  to  a 
“ lark.”  They  were  simple,  kind-hearted  young  men,  sons  of 
farmers  or  tradesmen  seemingly  ; and,  as  is  always  the  case 
here,  except  among  some  of  the  gentry,  very  gentlemanlike  and 
pleasing  in  manners.  Their  talk  was  of  this  companion  and 
that ; how  one  was  in  rhetoric,  and  another  in  logic,  and  a third 
had  got  his  curacy.  AYait  for  a while;  and  with  the  happy 
system  pursued  within  the  walls  of  their  college,  those  smiling, 
good-humored  faces  will  come  out  with  a scowl,  and  downcast 
eyes  that  seem  afraid  to  look  the  world  in  the  face.  AYhen  the 
time  comes  for  them  to  take  leave  of  yonder  dismal-looking 
barracks,  they  will  be  men  no  longer,  but  bound  over  to  the 
church,  body  and  soul:  their  free  thoughts  chained  down  and 
kept  in  darkness,  their  honest  affections  mutilated.  Well,  I 


THE  misil  SKETCH  BOOK. 


213 


hope  they  will  be  happy  to-night  at  any  rate,  and  talk  and  laugh 
to  their  hearts’  content.  The  poor  freshman,  whose  big  chest 
is  carried  off  b}"  the  porter  yonder  to  the  inn,  has  but  twelve 
hours  more  of  heart}^  natural,  human  life.  To-morrow^  they 
will  begin  their  work  upon  him  ; cramping  his  mind,  and  biting 
his  tongue,  and  firing  and  cutting  at  his  heart,  — breaking  him 
to  pull  the  church  chariot.  Ah  ! wh}^  didn’t  he  stop  at  home, 
and  dig  potatoes  and  get  children? 

Tart  of  the  drive  from  Ma3mooth  to  Dublin  is  exceedingly 
prctt}' : 3’ou  are  carried  tlirough  Leixlip,  Lucan,  Chapelizod,  and 
l)y  scores  of  parks  and  villas,  until  the  gas-lamps  come  in  sight. 
AVas  there  ever  a cockney"  that  was  not  glad  to  sec  them ; and 
did  not  prefer  the  sight  of  them,  in  his  heart,  to  the  best  lake 
or  mountain  ever  invented?  Fat  the  waiter  comes  jumping 
down  to  the  car  and  says,  Welcome  back,  sir ! ” and  bustles 
the  trunk  into  the  queer  little  bedroom,  with  all  the  cordial 
hospitality  imaginable. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

TWO  DAYS  IN  WICKLOW. 

The  little  tour  we  have  just  been  taking  has  been  performed, 
not  only  b}'  m3u*iads  of  the  “ car-drivingest,  ta3^-drinkingest, 
say-l)athingest  people  in  the  world,”  the  inhabitants  of  the  cit3" 
()t“  Dublin,  but  also  b3^  all  the  tourists  who  have  come  to  dis- 
cover this  countiy  for  the  benefit  of  the  English  nation.  “■  Look 
lierc  ! ” sa3’s  the  ragged,  bearded  genius  of  a guide  at  the  Seven 
Churches.  “ This  is  the  spot  which  Mr.  Henry  Inglis  particu- 
larly admired,  and  said  it  was  exactly  like  Norway.  Many’s 
the  song  I’ve  heard  Mr.  Sam  Lover  sing  here  — a pleasant 
gentleman  entirely.  Have  3'ou  seen  m3^  picture  that’s  taken  off 
in  Mrs.  Hall’s  book?  All  the  strangers  know  me  by  it,  though 
it  makes  me  much  cleverer  than  I am.”  Similar  tales  has  he 
of  Mr.  Barrow,  and  the  Transatlantic  Willis,  and  of  Crofton 
Croker,  who  has  been  eveijwhere. 

The  guide’s  remarks  concerning  the  works  of  these  gentle- 
men inspired  me,  I must  confess,  with  considerable  disgust  and 
jealous3u  A plague  take  them  1 what  remains  for  me  to  dis- 
cover after  the  gallant  adventurers  in  the  service  of  Paternoster 
Row^  have  examined  every  rock,  lake,  and  ruin  of  the  district. 


214 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


exhausted  it  of  all  its  legends,  and  “ invented  new”  most  likely, 
as  their  daring  genius  prompted?  Hence  it  follows  that  the  de- 
scription of  the  two  da}'s’  jaunt  must  of  necessit}’  be  short ; lest 
persons  who  have  read  former  accounts  should  be  led  to  refer  to 
the  same,  and  make  comparisons  which  might  possibl}^  be  un- 
favorable to  the  present  humble  pages. 

Is  there  anything  new  to  be  said  regarding  tlie  journey?  In 
the  first  place,  there’s  the  railroad : it’s  no  longer  than  the  rail- 
road to  Greenwich,  to  be  sure,  and  almost  as  well  known  ; but 
has  it  been  done  ? that’s  tlie  question  ; or  has  anj'bod}’  dis- 
covered the  dandies  on  the  railroad? 

After  wondering  at  the  beggars  and  carmen  of  Dublin,  the 
stranger  can’t  help  admiring  another  vast  and  numerous  class 
of  inhabitants  of  the  city  — namely,  the  dandies.  Such  a 
number  of  smartly-dressed  young  fellows  I don’t  think  anj'  town 
l)ossesses : no,  not  Paris,  where  the  3'oung  shopmen,  with  spurs 
and  stays,  may  be  remarked  strutting  abroad  on  fete-days  ; nor 
London,  where  on  Sunda3  s,  in  the  Park,  3'ou  see  thousands  of 
this  cheap  kind  of  aristocrac3’  parading  ; nor  Liverpool,  famous 
for  the  breed  of  commercial  dandies,  desk  and  counter  D’Orsa3*s 
and  cotton  and  sugar-barrel  Brummels,  and  whom  one  remarks 
pushing  on  to  business  with  a brisk  determined  air.  All  the 
above  races  are  onh'  to  be  encountered  on  holida3's,  except  by 
those  persons  whose  affairs  take  them  to  shops,  docks,  or  count- 
ing-houses, where  these  fascinating  young  fellows  labor  during 
the  week. 

But  the  Dublin  breed  of  dandies  is  quite  distinct  from  those 
of  the  various  cities  above  named,  and  altogether  superior : for 
thev  a[)pear  eveiy  day,  and  all  day  long,  not  once  a week 
merely,  and  have  an  original  and  splendid  character  and  ap- 
pearance of  their  owm,  very  hard  to  describe,  though  no  doubt 
every  traveller,  as  w’ell  as  myself,  lias  admired  and  observed  it. 
'riiey  assume  a sort  of  military  and  ferocious  look,  not  observ- 
able in  other  cheap  dandies,  except  in  Paris  perhaps  now  and 
then  ; and  are  to  be  remarked  not  so  much  for  the  splendor 
of  their  ornaments  as  for  the  profusion  of  them.  Thus,  for 
instance,  a hat  which  is  worn  straight  over  the  tw'O  C3’es  costs 
very  likely  more  than  one  which  hangs  upon  one  ear ; a great 
oily  bush  of  hair  to  balance  the  hat  (otherwise  the  head  no 
doubt  would  fall  hopelessly  on  one  side)  is  even  more  economi- 
cal than  a crop  which  requires  the  barber’s  scissors  oft-times ; 
also  a tuft  on  the  chin  may  be  had  at  a small  expense  of  bear’s- 
grease  lyy  persons  of  a proper  age  ; and  although  big  pins  are 
the  fashion,  I am  bound  to  sa3’  I have  never  seen  so  man3^  or 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  HOOK. 


215 


so  l)ig  as  here.  Large  agate  inar])les  or  taws,”  globes  terres- 
trial  and  celestial,  pawnbrokers’  balls,  — I cannot  find  coni- 
[)ai‘is(nis  large  cnongli  for  these  Avonderfnl  ornaments  of  the 
person.  Canes  also  should  be  mentioned,  which  are  sold  veiy 
s[)lendid,  with  gold  or  silver  heads,  for  a shilling  on  the  Quays  ; 
and  the  dandy  not  nncommonl}'  linishes  olf  with  a horn  quizzing- 
glass,  which  ])eing  stuck  in  one  eve  contracts  the  brows  and 
gives  a fierce  determined  look  to  the  whole  countenance. 

In  idleness  at  least  these  young  men  can  conq)ete  with  the 
greatest  lords  ; and  the  wonder  is,  how  the  city  can  snp[)ort  so 
many  of  them,  or  the}'  themselves  ; how  the}’  manage  to  spend 
their  time  : who  gives  them  money  to  ride  hacks  in  the  ^ Phay- 
nix”  on  field  and  race  days;  to  have  l)oats  at  Kingstown 
during  the  summer;  and  to  l)e  crowding  the  railway-coaches 
all  the  day  long?  Cars  go  whirling  about  all  day,  beaiing 
scpiads  of  them.  You  see  them  sauntering  at  all  the  railwiiy- 
stations  in  vast  numbers,  and  jumping  out  of  the  carriages  as 
the  trains  come  u[),  and  greeting  other  dandies  with  that  rich 
hijg’c  brogue  which  some  actor  ought  to  make  known  to  the 
English  public : it  being  the  biggest,  richest,  and  coarsest  of 
all  the  brogues  of  Ireland. 

I think  these  dandies  are  the  chief  objects  which  arrest  the 
sti’anger’s  attention  as  he  travels  on  the  Kingstown  railroad, 
and  I have  always  been  so  much  occupied  in  Avatching  and 
Avondering  at  them  as  scarcely  to  have  leisure  to  look  at  any- 
thing else  during  the  pretty  little  ride  of  tvA'cnty  minutes  so 
beloved  by  every  Dublin  cockney.  The  waters  of  the  bay  Avasli 
in  many  places  the  piers  on  Avliich  the  railway  is  built,  and  you 
see  the  calm  stretch  of  water  beyond,  and  the  big  purple  hill  of 
Ilowth,  and  the  light-houses,  and  the  jetties,  and  the  shipping. 
Yesterday  was  a boat-race,  (I  don’t  know  how  many  scores  of 
such  take  place  during  the  season,)  and  you  may  be  sure  there 
were  tens  of  thousands  of  the  dandies  to  look  on.  There  had 
been  boat-races  the  two  days  previous  : before  that,  had  been 
a field-day  — before  that,  three  days  of  garrison  races  — to- 
day, to-morrow,  and  the  day  after,  there  are  races  at  Howth. 
There  seems  some  sameness  in  the  sports,  but  everybody  goes  ; 
everybody  is  ncA^er  tired ; and  then,  I suppose,  comes  the 
punch-party,  and  the  song  in  the  CA^ening  — the  same  old 
l)leasures,  and  the  same  old  songs  the  next  day,  and  so  on 
to  the  end.  As  for  the  boat-race,  I saAv  two  little  boats  in  the 
distance  tugging  away  for  dear  life  — the  beach  and  piers 
sAvarming  with  spectators,  the  bay  full  of  small  yachts  and 
iqnurnerable  row-boats,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  assemblage  a 


216 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


convict-sliip  lying  ready  for  sail,  with  a black  naass  of  poo* 
wretches  on  her  deck  — who,  too,  were  eager  for  pleasure. 

Who  is  not,  in  this  country?  Walking  away  from  the  pier 
and  King  George’s  column,  you  arrive  upon  rows  after  rows  of 
picasure-houses,  whither  all  Dublin  flocks  during  the  summer- 
time — for  eveiy  one  must  have  his  sea-bathing ; and  they  say 
that  the  countiy  houses  to  the  west  of  the  town  are  empty,  or 
to  be  had  for  veiy  small  prices,  while  for  those  on  the  coast, 
especially  towards  Kingstown,  there  is  the  readiest  sale  at 
large  prices.  I have  paid  frecpient  visits  to  one,  of  which  the 
rent  is  as  great  as  that  of  a tolerable  London  house ; and  there 
seem  to  be  others  suited  to  all  purses  : for  instance,  there  are 
long  lines  of  two-roomed  houses,  stretching  far  back  and  away 
from  the  sea,  accommodating,  doubtless,  small  commercial  men, 
or  small  families,  or  some  of  those  travelling  dandies  we  have 
just  been  talking  about,  and  whose  costume  is  so  cheap  and  so 
splendid. 

A two-horse  car,  which  will  accommodate  twelve,  or  will 
condescend  to  receive  twent}’  passengers,  starts  from  the  rail- 
way-station for  Bra3’,  running  along  the  coast  for  the  chief  part 
of  the  journe}",  though  you  have  but  few  views  of  the  sea,  on 
account  of  intervening  woods  and  hills.  The  whole  of  this 
countiy  is  covered  with  handsome  villas  and  their  gardens,  and 
l)leasure-grounds.  There  are  round  many  of  the  houses  parks 
of  some  extent,  and  always  of  consideralfle  beauty,  among  the 
trees  of  which  the  road  winds.  New  churches  are  likewise  to 
be  seen  in  various  places  ; built  like  the  poor-houses,  that  are 
likewise  everywhere  springing  up,  prett}'  much  upon  one  plan 
— a sort  of  bastard  or  Vauxhall  Gothic  — resembling  no  archi- 
tecture of  an}’  age  previous  to  that  wdien  Horace  Walpole  in- 
vented the  Castle  of  Otranto  and  the  other  monstrosity  upon 
Strawberry  Hill : though  it  must  be  confessed  that  those  on 
the  Bray  line  are  by  no  means  so  imaginative.  AYell,  what 
matters,  say  you,  tliat  the  churches  be  ugly,  if  the  truth  is 
preached  wdthin?  Is  it  not  fair,  however,  to  say  that  Beauty 
is  the  truth  too,  of  its  kind  ? and  why  should  it  not  be  culti- 
vated as  well  as  other  truth  ? Why  build  these  hideous  barbaric 
temples,  when  at  the  expense  of  a little  study  and  taste  beau- 
tiful structures  might  be  raised? 

After  leaving  Bray,  with  its  pleasant  bay,  and  pleasant 
river,  and  pleasant  inn,  the  little  Wicklow  tour  may  be  said 
to  commence  properly  ; and,  as  that  romantic  and  beautiful 
country  has  been  described  many  times  in  familiar  terms, 
our  only  chance  is  to  speak  thereof  in  romantic  and  beau- 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK.  217 

tiful  language  such  as  no  other  writer  can  possibly  have 
employed. 

We  rang  at  the  gate  of  the  steward’s  lodge  and  said, 
“ Grant  us  a pass,  we  pray,  to  see  tlie  parks  of  Powerseonrt, 
and  to  behold  the  bi'own  deer  upon  the  grass,  and  the  cool 
shadows  under  the  whisi)ering  trees.” 

But  the  steward’s  sou  answered,  “You  may  not  sec  the 
parks  of  Powers(;oiu  t,  for  tlie  lord  of  the  castle  comes  home, 
and  we  ex[)cct  him  daily.”  So,  wondering  at  this  reply,  but 
not  understanding  tlu;  same,  we  took  leave  of  the  son  of  tlie 
steward  and  said,  “ Yo  doubt  Powerseonrt  is  not  lit  to  see. 
Have  we  not  seen  [)arks  in  England,  my  brother,  and  shall 
we  break  our  lieaits  that  this  Irish  one  hath  its  gates  closed 
to  ns?  ’ 

Then  the  car-bov  said,  “My  lords,  the  park  is  shut,  but 
the  waterfall  runs  for  every  man  ; will  it  please  3’ou  to  see  the 
waterfall?”  “Boy,”  we  replied,  “ we  have  seen  many  water- 
lalls  ; nevertheless,  lead  on  ! ” And  the  bo}'  took  his  [)ipe  out 
of  his  mouth  and  belabored  the  ribs  of  his  beast. 

And  the  horse  made  believe,  as  it  were,  to  trot,  and  jolted 
the  ardent  travellers  ; and  we  passed  the  green  trees  of  Tinne- 
liinch,  which  the  grateful  Irish  nation  bought  and  consecrated 
to  the  race  of  Grattan  ; and  we  said,  “ What  nation  will  spend 
fifty  thousand  pounds  for  our  benefit?  ” and  we  wished  we  might 
get  it;  and  we  passed  on.  The  birds  were,  meanwhile,  chant- 
ing concerts  in  the  woods  ; and  the  sun  was  double-gilding  the 
golden  corn. 

And  we  came  to  a hill,  which  was  steep  and  long  of  de- 
scent ; and  the  car-boy  said,  “ M3*  lords,  I ma}*  never  descend 
this  hill  with  safety  to  3*0111’  honors’  bones  : for  1113*  horse  is  not 
sure  of  foot,  and  loves  to  kneel  in  the  highway.  Descend 
therefore,  and  I will  await  your  return  here  on  the  top  of  the 
hill.” 

So  we  descended,  and  one  grumbled  greatl3* ; but  the  other 
said,  “Sir,  be  of  good  heart!  the  wa3*  is  pleasant,  and  the 
footman  will  not  weai’3^  as  he  travels  it.”  And  we  went  through 
the  swinging  gates  of  a park,  where  the  harvest-men  sate  at 
their  potatoes  — a mealy  meal. 

The  way  was  not  short,  as  the  companion  said,  but  still  it 
was  a pleasant  wa3*  to  walk.  Green  stretches  of  grass  werc> 
there,  and  a forest  nigh  at  hand.  It  was  but  September:  3*et 
tlie  autumn  had  alread3^  begun  to  turn  the  green  trees  into  red  ; 
and  the  ferns  that  were  waving  undenieath  the  trees  were  red- 
(I'jned  and  fading  too.  And  as  Dr.  Jones’s  bo3*s  of  a Satuj-daj^ 


218 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


disport  in  the  meadows  after  school-hours,  so  did  the  little 
clouds  run  races  over  the  waving  grass.  And  as  grave  ushci’s 
who  look  on  smiling  at  the  sports  of  these  little  ones,  so  stood 
the  old  trees  around  the  green,  whispering  and  nodding  to  one 
another. 

Purple  mountains  rose  before  us  in  front,  and  we  began 
presentl}^  to  hear  a noise  and  roaring  afar  off — not  a tierce 
roaring,  but  one  deep  and  calm,  like  to  the  respiration  of  tlie 
great  sea,  as  he  lies  basking  on  the  sands  in  the  sunshine. 

As  we  came  soon  to  a little  hillock  of  green,  which  was 
standing  before  a huge  mountain  of  purple  black,  and  there 
were  white  clouds  over  the  mountains,  and  some  trees  waving 
on  the  hillock,  and  between  the  trunks  of  them  we  saw  the 
waters  of  the  waterfall  descending ; and  there  was  a snob  on  a 
rock,  who  stood  and  examined  the  same. 

Then  we  approached  the  water,  passing  the  clump  of  oak- 
trees.  The  waters  were  white,  and  the  cliffs  which  the}'  var- 
nished were  purple.  But  those  round  about  were  gra}',  tall, 
and  gay  with  blue  shadows,  and  ferns,  heath,  and  rust}'- colored 
funguses  sprouting  here  and  there  in  the  same.  But  in  the 
ravine  where  the  waters  fell,  roaring  as  it  were  with  the  fall, 
the  rocks  were  dark,  and  the  foam  of  the  cataract  was  of  a 
yellow  color.  And  we  stood,  and  were  silent,  and  wondered. 
And  still  the  trees  continued  to  wave,  and  the  waters  to  roar 
and  tumble,  and  the  sim  to  shine,  and  the  fresh  wind  to  blow. 

And  we  stood  and  looked : and  said  in  our  hearts  it  w'as 
beautiful,  and  betliought  us  how  shall  all  this  be  set  down  in 
types  and  ink?  (for  our  trade  is  to  write  books  and  sell  the 
same  — a chapter  for  a guinea,  a line  for  a penny)  ; and  the 
w'aterfall  roared  in  answer,  “ For  shame,  O vain  man  ! think 
not  of  thy  books  and  of  thy  pence  now  ; but  look  on,  and  wonder, 
and  be  silent.  Can  types  or  ink  describe  my  beauty,  though 
aided  by  thy  small  wit  ? I am  made  for  thee  to  praise  and 
wonder  at : be  content,  and  cherish  thy  wonder.  It  is  enough 
that  thou  hast  seen  a great  thing : is  it  needful  that  thou 
shouldst  prate  of  all  thou  hast  seen  ? ” 

So  we  came  away  silently,  and  walked  through  the  park 
without  looking  back.  And  there  was  a man  at  the  gate,  who 
opened  it  and  seemed  to  say,  “ Give  me  a little  sixpence.” 
But  we  gave  nothing,  and  walked  up  the  hill,  which  was  sore 
to  climb  ; and  on  the  summit  found  tlie  car-boy,  who  was  lolling 
on  his  cushions  and  smoking,  as  happy  as  a lord. 

• (Quitting  the  waterfall  at  Powerscourt  (the  grand  style  in 
wliicli  it  has  been  described  >vas  adopted  in  order  that  the 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


219 


reiider,  who  has  probablj^  read  other  descriptions  of  the  spot, 
might  have  at  least  something  new  in  this  account  of  it),  we 
speedily  left  behind  us  the  rich  and  wooded  tract  of  countiy  about 
Powerscourt,  and  came  to  a bleak  tract,  which,  perliaps  by 
way  of  contrast  with  so  much  natural  wcaltli,  is  not  unpleasing, 
au(l  began  ascending  what  is  very  properly  called  the  Long  Hill. 
Here  you  see,  in  the  midst  of  the  loneliness,  a grim-looking 
])arrack,  that  was  erected  when,  after  the  Rebellion,  it  was 
necessary  for  some  time  to  occupy  this  most  rebellious  country ; 
and  a church  looking  equally  dismal,  a lean-looking  sham- 
Gothic  building,  in  the  midst  of  this  green  desert.  The  road 
to  Luggala,  whither  we  were  bound,  turns  off  the  Long  Hill, 
up  anotlier  hill,  which  seems  still  longer  and  stee[)er,  inasmuch 
as  it  was  ascended  perforce  on  foot,  and  over  lonel}^  ^t)ggy 
moorlands,  enlivened  b}"  a huge  gray  i)oulder  plumped  here 
and  there,  and  comes,  one  wonders  how,  to  the  spot.  Close  to 
tiiis  hill  of  Slicvebuck,  is  marked  in  the  maps  a district  called. 

the  uninhabited  country,”  and  these  stones  probably  fell  at  a 
period  of  time  when  not  only  this  district,  but  all  the  world 
was  uninhabited,  — and  in  some  convulsion  of  the  neighboring 
monnlains  this  and  other  enormous  rocks  were  cast  abroad. 

From  behind  one  of  them,  or  out  of  the  ground  somehow,  as 
we  went  u[)  the  hill,  sprang  little  ragged  guides,  who  are  always 
lurking  about  in  search  of  stray  lienee  from  tourists  ; and  we 
had  three  or  four  of  such  at  our  back  by  the  time  we  were  at 
the  top  of  the  hill.  Almost  the  first  sight  we  saw  w\as  a smart 
coach-and-four,  with  a loving  wedding-party  within,  and  a 
genteel  valet  and  ladj-’s-maid  without.  I wondered  had  they 
been  burying  their  modest  loves  in  the  uninhabited  district? 
But  presently,  from  the  top  of  the  hill,  I saw  the  [ilace  in  'which 
their  honeymoon  had  been  [lassed  : nor  could  any  pair  of  lovers, 
nor  a pious  hermit  bent  on  retirement  from  the  wmrld,  have 
selected  a more  sequestered  spot. 

Standing  by  a big  shining  granite  stone  on  the  hill-top,  we 
looked  immediately  dov/n  upon  Lough  Tay  — a little  round 
lake  of  half  a mile  in  length,  which  lay  beneath  us  as  black  as 
a pool  of  ink  — a high,  crumbling,  white-sided  mountain  falling 
abruptlj^  into  it  on  the  side  opposite  to  us,  with  a huge  ruin  of 
shattered  rocks  at  its  base.  Northwards,  we  could  see  between 
mountains  a portion  of  the  neighboring  lake  of  Lough  Dan  — 
which,  too,  was  dark,  though  the  Annamoe  river,  which  con- 
nects the  two  lakes,  lay  coursing  through  the  greenest  possible 
flats  and  shining  as  bright  as  silver.  Brilliant  green  shores, 
too,  come  gently  down  to  the  southern  side  of  Lough  Tay ; 


220 


THE  miSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


through  these  runs  another  river,  with  a small  rapid  or  fall, 
which  makes  a music  for  the  lake,  and  here,  amidst  beautiful 
woods,  lies  a villa,  where  the  four  horses,  the  groom  and  valet, 
the  postilions,  and  the  3’oung  couple  had,  no  doubt,  been  hiding 
themselves. 

Plereabouts,  the  owner  of  the  villa,  Mr.  Latouche,  has  a 
great  grazing  establishment ; and  some  herd-boys,  no  doubt 
seeing  strangers  on  the  hill,  thought  proper  that  the  cattle 
should  stra}'  that  wa}’,  that  they  might  drive  them  back  again, 
and  parentlieticall}^  ask  the  travellers  for  money,  — everybody 
asks  travellers  for  mone}',  as  it  seems.  Next  day,  admiring  in 
a laborer’s  arms  a little  child  — his  master’s  son,  who  could  not 
speak  — the  laborer,  his  he-nurse,  spoke  for  him,  and  demanded 
a little  sixpence  to  bu}^  the  child  apples.  One  grows  not  a little 
callous  to  this  sort  of  beggary  : and  the  only  one  of  our  numerous 
young  guides  who  got  a reward  was  the  raggedest  of  them.  He 
and  his  companions  had  just  come  from  school,  he  said,  — not 
a Government  school,  but  a private  one,  where  the}'  paid.  I 
asked  how  much,  — “Was  it  a penny  a week?  ” “ No  ; not  a 

penny  a week,  but  so  much  at  the  end  of  the  }'ear.”  “ Was  it  a 
barrel  of  meal,  or  a few  stone  of  potatoes,  or  something  of  that 
sort?”  “ Yes  ; something  of  that  sort.” 

The  something  must,  however,  have  been  a very  small  some- 
thing on  the  poor  lad’s  part.  He  was  one  of  four  }'Oung  ones, 
who  lived  with  their  mother,  a widow.  He  had  no  w^ork ; he 
could  get  no  work  ; nobod}'  had  work.  His  mother  had  a 
cabin  with  no  land  — not  a perch  of  land,  no  potatoes  — noth- 
ing but  the  cabin.  How  did  they  live?  — the  mother  knitted 
stockings.  I asked  had  she  any  stockings  at  home?  — the  boy 
said,  “ No.”  How  did  he  live?  — he  lived  how  he  could  ; and 
we  gave  him  threepence,  with  which,  in  delight,  he  went  bound- 
ing oil’  to  the  poor  mother.  Gracious  heavens  ! what  a history 
to  hear,  told  by  a child  looking  quite  cheerful  as  he  told  it,  and 
as  if  the  story  was  quite  a common  one.  And  a common  one, 
too,  it  is  : and  God  forgive  us. 

Here  is  another,  and  of  a similar  low  kind,  but  rather 
l)lcasanter.  We  asked  the  car-bo}'  how  much  he  earned.  He 
said,  “Seven  shillings  a week,  and  his  chances”  — which,  in 
the  summer  season,  from  the  number  of  tourists  who  are  jolted 
in  his  car,  must  be  tolerably  good  — eight  or  nine  shillings  a 
week  more,  probably.  But,  he  said,  in  winter  his  master  did 
not  hire  him  for  the  car ; and  he  was  obliged  to  look  for  woi  k 
elsewhere  : as  for  saving,  he  never  had  saved  a shilling  in  his 
life. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


221 


We  asked  him  was  he  married?  and  he  said,  No,  but  ho 
was  as  good  as  married ; for  he  had  an  old  mother  and  Ibnr 
little  brothers  to  keep,  and  six  mouths  to  feed,  and  to  di'ess 
himself  deeent  to  drivm  the  gentlemen.  Was  not  the  as  good 
as  married  ” a prett}"  expression?  and  might  not  some  of  what 
are  called  their  l)etters  learn  a little  good  from  these  sini[)le 
poor  creatures?  There’s  man}’  a young  fellow  who  sets  up  iu 
the  world  would  think  it  rather  hard  to  have  four  broihers  to 
su[)port ; and  1 have  heard  more  than  one  genteel  Chi’istiau 
pining  over  five  hundred  a year.  A few  such  may  read  this, 
perhaps  : let  them  think  of  the  Irish  widow  with  the  four  chil- 
dren and  nothing,  and  at  least  be  more  contented  with  their  port 
and  sheriy  and  their  leg  of  mutton. 

This  brings  us  at  once  to  the  subject  of  dinner  and  the 
little  village,  Roundwood,  which  was  reached  by  this  time, 
lying  a few  miles  oil'  from  the  lakes,  and  reached  b}"  a road  not 
particularly  remarkable  for  any  picturesqueness  in  beaut}’ ; 
ihough  you  pass  through  a simple,  pleasing  landscape,  always 
agreeable  as  a repose,  I think,  after  viewing  a sight  so  beauti- 
ful as  those  mountain  lakes  we  have  just  quitted.  All  the  lulls 
up  which  we  had  panted  had  imparted  a fierce  sensution  of 
hunger;  and  it  was  nobly  decreed  that  we  should  sto[)  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  of  Roundwood,  impartially  between  the 
two  hotels,  and  solemnly  decide  upon  a resting-place  after  hav- 
ing inspected  the  larders  and  bedrooms  of  each. 

And  here,  as  an  imi)artial  writer,  I must  say  that  the  hotel  of 
Mr.  Wheatly  possesses  attractions  which  few  ihen  can  resist,  in 
the  shape  of  two  A’ery  handsome  young  ladies  his  daughters  ; 
whose  faces  were  they  but  painted  on  his  signboard,  instead  of 
the  mysterious  piece  which  ornaments  it,  would  infallibly  draw 
tourists  into  the  house,  thereby  giving  the  opposition  inn  of 
Murphy  not  the  least  chance  of  custom. 

A landlord’s  daughters  in  England,  inhabiting  a little  coun- 
try inn,  would  be  apt  to  lay  the  cloth  for  the  traveller,  and  their 
respected  father  would  bring  in  the  first  dish  of  the  dinner ; 
but  this  arrangement  is  never  known  in  Ireland  : we  scarcely 
ever  see  the  cheering  countenance  of  my  landlord.  And  as  for 
the  young  ladies  of  Roundwood,  I am  bound  to  sa}'  that  no 
young  persons  in  Baker  Street  could  be  more  genteel ; and  that 
our  bill,  when  it  was  brought  the  next  morning,  wms  written  in 
as  pretty  and  fashionable  a lady’s  hand  as  ever  was  formed  in 
the  most  elegant  finishing  school  at  Pimlico. 

Of  the  dozen  houses  of  the  little  village,  the  half  seem  to  be 
houses  of  entertainment.  A green  common  stretches  before 


222 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


these,  with  its  rural  accompaniments  of  geese,  pigs,  and  idlers  ; 
a park  and  plantation  at  the  end  of  the  village,  and  plenty  of 
trees  round  about  it,  give  it  a happy,  comfortable,  English 
look  ; which  is,  to  my  notion,  the  best  compliment  that  can  be 
paid  to  a hamlet : for  where,  after  all,  are  villages  so  pretty? 

Here,  rather  to  one’s  wonder — for  the  district  was  not 
thickly  enough  populated  to  encourage  dramatic  exhibitions  — 
a sort  of  theatre  was  erected  on  the  common,  a ragged  cloth 
covering  the  spectators  and  the  actors,  and  the  former  (if  there 
were  any)  obtaining  admittance  through  two  doors  on  the  stage 
in  front,  marked  “pit  & galery.”  Why  should  the  word  not 
be  spelt  with  one  l as  with  two  ? 

The  entrance  to  the  “ pit”  was  stated  to  be  threepence,  and 
to  the  “galery”  twopence.  We  heard  the  drums  and  pipes 
of  the  orchestra  as  we  sat  at  dinner : it  seemed  to  be  a good 
opportunity  to  examine  Irish  humor  of  a peculiar  sort,  and  we 
promised  ourselves  a pleasant  evening  in  the  pit. 

But  although  the  drums  began  to  beat  at  half-past  six,  and  a 
crowd  of  young  people  formed  round  the  ladder  at  that  hour.  \o 
whom  the  manager  of  the  troop  addressed  the  most  vehement 
invitations  to  enter,  nobody  seemed  to  be  inclined  to  mount  tl/e 
steps : for  the  fact  most  likely  was,  that  not  one  of  the  poor 
fellows  possessed  the  requisite  twopence  which  would  induce 
the  fat  old  lady  who  sat  by  it  to  fling  open  the  gallery  door. 
At  one  time  I thought  of  offering  a half-crown  for  a purchase  of 
tickets  for  twenty,  and  so  at  once  benefiting  the  manager  and 
the  crowd  of  ragged  urchins  who  stood  wistfulty  without  his 
pavilion ; but  it  seemed  ostentatious,  and  we  had  not  the 
courage  to  face  the  tall  man  in  the  great-coat  gesticulating  and 
shouting  in  front  of  the  stage,  and  make  the  proposition. 

Why  not?  It  would  have  given  the  company  potatoes  at 
least  for  supper,  and  made  a score  of  children  happ}G  They 
would  have  seen  “ the  learned  pig  who  spells  your  name,  the 
feats  of  manly  activity,  the  wonderful  Italian  vaulting ; ” and 
they  would  have  heard  the  comic  songs  by  ‘ ‘ your  humble 
servant.” 

“ Your  humble  servant”  was  the  head  of  the  troop  : a long 
man,  with  a broad  accent,  a 3'ellow  top-coat,  and  a piteous  lean 
face.  What  a speculation  was  this  poor  fellow’s  ! he  must  have 
a company  of  at  least  a dozen  to  keep.  There  were  three  girls 
in  trousers,  who  danced  in  front  of  the  stage,  in  Polish  caps, 
tossing  their  arms  about  to  the  tunes  of  three  musicianers ; 
there  was  a page,  two  young  traged^’-actors,  and  a clown ; 
there  was  the  fat  old  woman  at  the  gallery-door  waiting  for  the 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


223 


twopences  ; there  was  the  Jack  Pudding;  and  it  was  evident 
that  there  must  have  been  some  one  within,  or  else  who  would 
take  care  of  the  learned  pig? 

The  poor  manager  stood  in  front,  and  sliouted  to  the  little 
Irishry  beneath  ; but  no  one  seemed  to  move.  Then  he  brought 
forward  Jack  Pudding,  and  had  a dialogue  with  him  ; the  jocu- 
larity of  which,  by  heavens  ! made  the  heart  ache  to  hear. 
We  had  determined,  at  least,  to  go  to  the  play  before  that,  but 
the  dialogue  was  too  much : we  were  obliged  to  walk  awa3% 
unable  to  face  that  dreadful  Jack  Pudding,  and  heard  the  poor 
manager  shouting  still  for  many  hours  through  the  night,  and 
the  drums  thumping  vain  invitations  to  the  people.  O unhapp}^ 
children  of  the  Hibernian  Thespis  I it  is  my  belief  that  thej' 
must  have  eaten  the  learned  pig  that  night  for  supper. 

It  was  Sunday  morning  when  we  left  the  little  inn  at  Round- 
wood  : the  people  w^ere  flocking  in  numbers  to  church,  on  cars, 
and  pillions,  neat,  comfortable,  and  well  dressed.  We  saw  in 
this  countiy  more  health,  more  beaut^’^,  and  more  shoes  than  I 
have  remarked  in  anj'  quarter.  That  famous  resort  of  sight- 
seers, the  Devil’s  Glen,  lies  at  a few  miles’  distance  from  the  little 
village  ; and,  having  gone  on  the  car  as  near  to  the  spot  as  the 
road  permitted,  we  made  across  the  flelds  — boggy,  stony,  ill- 
tilled  flelds  they  were*  — for  about  a mile,  at  the  end  of  which 
walk  we  found  ourselves  on  the  brow  of  the  ravine  that  has 
received  so  ugly  a name. 

Is  there  a legend  about  the  place?  No  doubt  for  this,  as 
for  almost  every  other  natural  curiosity  in  Ireland,  there  is 
some  tale  of  monk,  saint,  faiiy,  or  devil;  but  our  guide  on  the 
present  day  was  a barrister  from  Dublin,  who  did  not  deal  in 
fictions  by  an}'  means  so  romantic,  and  the  history,  whatever  it 
was,  remained  untold.  Perhaps  the  little  breechesless  cicerone 
who  offered  himself  would  have  given  us  the  story,  but  we  dis- 
missed the  urchin  with  scorn,  and  had  to  find  our  own  way 
through  bush  and  bramble  down  to  the  entrance  of  the  gull}’. 

Here  we  came  on  a cataract,  which  looks  very  big  in  Messrs. 
Curry’s  pretty  little  Guide-book  (that  every  traveller  to  Wick- 
low will  be  sure  to  have  in  his  pocket)  ; but  the  waterfall,  on 
this  shining  Sabbath  morning,  was  disposed  to  labor  as  little 
as  possible,  and  indeed  is  a spirit  of  a very  humble,  ordinary 
sort. 

But  there  is  a ravine  of  a mile  and  a half,  through  wliich  a 
river  runs  roaring  (a  lady  who  keeps  the  gate  will  not  object  to 
receive  a gratuity) — there  is  a ravine,  or  Devil’s  glen,  which 
forms  a delightful  wild  walk,  and  where  a Methuselah  of  a 


224 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


landscape-painter  might  find  studies  for  all  his  life  long.  All 
sorts  of  foliage  and  color,  all  sorts  of  delightful  caprices  of  light 
and  shadow  — the  river  tumbling  and  frothing  amidst  the  boul- 
ders— “ raucum  per  laevia  murmur  saxa  ciens,”  and  a chorus 
of  150,000  birds  (there  might  be  more),  hopping,  twittering, 
singing  under  the  clear  cloudless  Sabbath  scene,  make  this  walk 
one  of  the  most  delightful  that  can  be  taken  ; and  indeed  I 
hope  there  is  no  harm  in  sa3dng  that  you  ma}'  get  as  much  out 
of  an  hour’s  walk  there  as  out  of  the  best  hour’s  extempore 
preaching.  But  this  was  as  a salvo  to  our  conscience  for  not 
being  at  church. 

Here,  however,  was  a long  aisle,  arched  gothicall}^  overhead, 
in  a much  better  taste  than  is  seen  in  some  of  those  dismal  new 
churches  ; and,  by  waj^  of  painted  glass,  the  sun  lighting  up 
multitudes  of  cmrious-colored  leaves,  and  the  birds  for  choris- 
ters, and  the  river  by  wa^^  of  organ,  and  in  it  stones  enough  to 
make  a whole  libraiy  of  sermons.  No  man  can  walk  in  such 
a place  without  feeling  grateful,  and  grave,  and  humble;  and 
without  thanking  heaven  for  it  as  he  comes  awa}\  And,  walk- 
ing and  musing  in  this  free,  happ}'  place,  one  could  not  help 
thinking  of  a million  and  a half  of  brother  cockneys  shut  up  in 
their  huge  prison  (the  treadmill  for  the  da}’  beiug  idle),  and 
told  by  some  legislators  that  relaxation  ‘ is  sinful,  that  works 
of  art  are  al)ominations  except  on  week-days,  and  that  their 
proper  place  of  resort  is  a dingy  tabernacle,  where  a loud-voiced 
man  is  howling  about  hell-fire  in  bad  grammar.  Is  not  this 
beautiful  world,  too,  a part  of  our  religion?  Yes,  truly,  in 
whatever  way  my  Lord  John  Russell  may  vote  ; and  it  is  to  be 
learned  without  having  recourse  to  any  professor  at  any  Be- 
thesda,  Ebenezer,  or  Jerusalem  : there  can  be  no  mistake  about 
it ; no  terror,  no  bigoted  dealing  of  damnation  to  one’s  neigh- 
bor : it  is  taught  without  false  emphasis  or  vain  spouting  on 
the  preacher’s  part  — how  should  there  be  such  with  such  a 
preacher  ? 

This  wild  onslaught  upon  sermons  and  preachers  needs  per- 
haps an  explanation  : for  wdiich  purpose  we  must  whisk  back 
out  of  the  Devil’s  Glen  (improperly  so  named)  to  Dublin,  and 
to  this  day  week,  when,  at  this  very  time,  I heard  one  of  the 
first  preacliers  of  the  city  deliver  a sermon  that  lasted  for  an 
hour  and  twenty  minutes  — time  enough  to  walk  up  the  Glen 
and  back,  and  remark  a thousand  delightful  things  by  the  way. 

^Ir.  G ’s  church  (though  there  would  be  no  harm  in 

mentioning  the  gentleman’s  name,  for  a more  conscientious  and 
excellent  man,  as  it  is  said,  cannot  be)  is  close  by  the  Custom 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


225 


House  ill  Dublin,  and  crowded  morning  and  evening  with  his 
admirers.  The  service  was  beautifullj^  read  b}’  him,  and  the 
andience  joined  in  the  responses,  and  in  the  psalms  and  h3  nins,* 
with  a fervor  whieli  is  veiy  unusual  in  England.  Then  came 
the  sermon  ; and  what  more  can  be  said  of  it  than  that  it  was 
extempore,  and  lasted  for  an  hour  and  twenty  minutes?  The 
orator  never  failed  once  fora  word,  so  amazing  is  his  practice  ; 
though,  as  a stranger  to  this  kind  of  exei'cise,  1 could  not  help 
trembling  for  the  performer,  as  one  lias  for  Madame  Saqui  on 
the  slack  rope,  in  the  midst  of  a blaze  of  rockets  and  squibs, 
expecting  every  minute  she  must  go  over.  But  the  artist  was 
too  skilled  for  that ; and  after  some  tremendous  bound  of  a 
metaphor,  in  the  midst  of  which  you  expect  he  must  tumble 
neck  and  heels,  and  be  engulfed  in  the  dark  abyss  of  nonsense, 
down  he  was  sure  to  come,  in  a most  graceful  attitude  too,  in 
the  midst  of  a fluttering  “Ah!”  from  a thousand  wondering 
people. 

But  I declare  solemnly  that  wlien  I came  to  try  and  recol- 
lect of  what  the  exhibition  consisted,  and  give  an  account  of 
the  sermon  at  dinner  that  evening,  it  w^as  quite  impossible 
to  remember  a word  of  it;  although,  to  do  the  orator  justice, 
lie  repeated  maiyy  of  his  opinions  a great  number  of  times  over. 
Thus,  if  he  had  to  discourse  of  death  to  us,  it  was,  “ At  the 
approach  of  the  Dark  Angel  of  the  Grave,”  “ At  the  coming 
of  the  grim  King  of  Terrors,”  “At  the  warning  of  that  awful 
Bower  to  whom  ail  of  us  must  bow  down,”  “ At  the  summons 
of  that  Pallid  Spectre  whose  equal  foot  knocks  at  the  monarch’s 
tower  or  the  poor  man’s  cabin” — and  so  forth.  There  is  an 
examiner  of  plays,  and  indeed  there  ought-  to  be  an  examiner 
of  sermons,  by  which  audiences  are  to  be  fully  as  much  injured 
or  misguided  as  by  the  other  named  exhibitions.  What  call 
have  reverend  gentlemen  to  repeat  their  dicta  half  a dozen  times 
over,  like  Sir  Robert  Peel  when  he  sa^’s  anything  that  he  fancies 
to  be  witty?  Wly^  are  men  to  be  kept  for  an  hour  and  twenty 
minutes  listening  to  that  which  may  be  more  effectually  said  in 
twenty  ? 

* Here  is  an  extract  from  one  of  the  latter  — 

“ Hasten  to  some  distant  isle, 

In  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 

WJiere  the  skies  for  ever  smile. 

And  the  blacks  for  ever  weep.” 

Is  it  not  a shame  that  such  nonsensical  false  twaddie  should  be  sung  in 
n I'iousf  of  tlie  Church  of  England,  and  by  people  assembled  for  grave  and 
(iecent  vforsliip'? 

15 


226 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


And  it  need  not  be  said  here  that  a church  is  not  a sermon- 
house  — that  it  is  devoted  to  a purpose  much  more  loft}”  and 
sacred,  for  which  has  been  set  apart  the  noblest  service,  every 
single  word  of  which  latter  has  been  previousl^^  weighed  with 
the  most  scrupulous  and  thoughtful  reverence.  And  after  this 
sublime  work  of  genius,  learning,  and  piety  is  concluded,  is 
it  not  a shame  that  a man  should  mount  a desk,  who  has  not 
taken  the  trouble  to  arrange  his  words  beforehand,  and  speak 
thence  his  crude  opinions  in  his  doubtful  grammar?  It  will  be 
answered  that  the  extempore  preacher  does  not  deliver  crude 
opinions,  but  that  he  arranges  his  discourse  beforehand : to  all 

which  it  maj’  be  replied  that  Mr.  contradicted  himself 

more  than  once  in  the  course  of  the  above  oration,  and  repeated 
himself  a half-dozen  of  times.  A man  in  that  place  has  no 
right  to  saj'  a word  too  much  or  too  little. 

And  it  comes  to  this,  — it  is  the  preacher  the  people  follow, 
not  the  praj'ers  ; or  why  is  this  church  more  frequented  than 
ail}’  other?  It  is  that  warm  emphasis,  and  word-mouthing,  and 
vulgar  imageiy,  and  glib  rotundity  of  phrase,  which  brings 
them  together  and  keeps  them  happy  and  breathless.  Some  of 
this  class  call  the  Cathedral  Service  Paddy's  Opera ; they  sa}’ 
it  is  Popish  — downright  scarlet  — they  won’t  go  to  it.  They 
will  have  none  but  their  own  h3^mns  — and  pretty  the}^  are  — 
no  ornaments  but  those  of  their  own  minister,  his  rank  incense 
and  tawdry  rhetoric.  Coming  out  of  the  church,  on  the  Cus- 
tom House  steps  hard  b}’,  there  was  a fellow  with  a bald  large 
forehead,  a new  black  coat,  a little  Bible,  spouting  — spouting 
“ in  omne  volubilis  revum  ” — the  veiy  counterpart  of  the  rev- 
erend gentleman  hard  by.  It  was  just  the  same  thing,  just  as 
well  done  : the  eloquence  quite  as  easy  and  round,  the  amplifi- 
cations as  read}',  the  big  words  rolling  round  the  tongue  just  as 
within  doors.  But  we  are  out  of  the  Devil’s  Glen  by  this  time  ; 
and  perhaps,  instead  of  delivering  a sermon  there,  we  had  bet- 
ter have  been  at  church  hearing  one. 

The  country  people,  however,  are  far  more  pious  ; and  the 
road  along  which  we  went  to  Glendalough  was  thronged  with 
hai)p3'  figures  of  people  plodding  to  or  from  mass.  A chapel 
3*ard  was  covered  with  gra}"  cloaks  ; and  at  a little  inn  hard  by, 
stood  numerous  carts,  cars,  shandrydans,  and  pillioned  horses, 
awaiting  the  end  of  the  pra3'crs.  The  aspect  of  the  country 
is  wild,  and  beautiful  of  course  ; but  why  try  to  describe  it?  I 
think  the  Irish  scenery  just  like  the  Irish  melodies  — sw'eet, 
wild,  and  sad  even  in  the  sunshine.  You  can  neither  represent 
one  nor  the  other  by  words  ; but  I am  sure  if  one  could  trans- 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


227 


late  “The  Meeting  of  the  Waters”  into  form  and  colors,  it 
would  fall  into  the  exact  shape  of  a tender  Irish  landscape.  So 
take  and  play  that  tune  upon  \our  liddle,  and  shut  your  e}’es, 
and  muse  a little,  and  you  have  the  whoU'  scene  before  3'ou. 

I don’t  know  if  there  is  anv  tune  about  Glendalougli ; but 
if  there  be,  it  must  l)e  the  most  delicate,  fantastic,  fairy  melody 
that  ever  was  pla}’ed.  Only  fanc}'  can  describe  the  charms  of 
that  delightful  place.  Directly  you  see  it,  it  smiles  at  you  as 
innocent  and  friendly  as  a little  child  ; and  once  seen,  it  becomes 
30ur  friend  forever,  and  3’ou  are  alwa3's  happy  when  3'ou  think 
of  it.  Here  is  a little  lake,  and  little  fords  across  it,  surrounded 
by  little  mountains,  and  which  lead  you  now  to  little  islands 
where  there  are  all  sorts  of  fantastic  little  old  chapels  and  grave- 
3'ards  ; or,  again,  into  little  brakes  and  shrubberies  where  small 
rivers  are  crossing  over  little  rocks,  plashing  and  jumping,  and 
singing  as  loud  as  ever  they  can.  Thomas  Moore  has  written 
rather  an  awful  descri[)tion  of  it ; and  it  ma3’  indeed  appear 
big  to  kim^  and  to  the  fairies  who  must  have  inhabited  the  place 
in  old  da3's,  that’s  clear.  For  who  could  be  accommodated  in 
it  except  the  little  people  ? 

There  are  seven  churches,  whereof  the  clerg3^  must  have 
been  the  smallest  persons,  and  have  had  the  smallest  benefices 
and  the  littlest  congregations  ever  known.  As  for  the  cathe- 
dral, what  a bishoplet  it  must  have  been  that  presided  there. 
The  place  would  hardl3'  hold  the  Bishop  of  London,  or  Mr. 
Sydne3"  Smith  — two  full-sized  clergymen  of  these  da3’s  — who 
would  be  sure  to  quarrel  there  for  want  of  room,  or  for  aii3" 
other  reason.  There  must  have  been  a dean  no  bigger  than 
Mr.  Moore  before  mentioned,  and  a chapter  no  bigger  than 
that  chapter  in  “Tristram  Shand3^  ” which  does  not  contain  a 
single  word,  and  mere  popguns  of  canons,  and  a beadle  about 
as  tall  as  Crofton  Croker,  to  whip  tlie  little  boys  who  were  play- 
ing at  taw  (with  peas)  in  the  yard. 

They  sa3"  there  was  a universit3',  too,  in  the  place,  with 
I don’t  know  how  many  thousand  scholars  ; but  for  accounts  of 
this  there  is  an  excellent  guide  on  the  spot,  who,  for  a shilling 
or  two,  will  tell  all  he  knows,  and  a great  deal  more  too. 

There  are  numerous  legends,  too,  concerning  St.  Kevin,  and 
Fin  MacCoul  and  the  Devil,  and  the  deuce  knows  what.  But 
these  stories  are,  I am  bound  to  sa3^  abominabl3’  stupid  and 
stale ; and  some  guide  * ought  to  be  seized  upon  and  choked, 

* It  must  be  said,  for  the  worthy  fellow  who  accompanied  us,  and  who 
acted  as  cicerone  previously  to  the  great  Wilhs,  the  great  Hall,  the  great 


228 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


and  flung  into  the  lake,  by  wa}^  of  warning  to  the  others  to  stop 
their  interminable  prate.  This  is  the  curse  attending  curiosity, 
for  visitors  to  almost  all  the  show-places  in  the  countiy : 3 0U 
have  not  only  the  guide  — who  himself  talks  too  much  — but 
a string  of  ragged  amateurs,  starting  from  bush  and  briar, 
read}’  to  carry  his  honor’s  umbrella  or  m3’  lad3’’s  cloak,  or  to 
help  either  up  a bank  or  across  a stream.  And  all  the  while 
they  look  wistiull}’  in  3’our  face,  sa3dng,  “ Give  me  sixpence  ! ” 
as  clear  as  looks  can  speak.  The  unconscionable  rogues  ! how 
dare  the}’,  for  the  sake  of  a little  starvation  or  so,  interrupt 
gentlefolks  in  their  pleasure  ! 

A long  tract  of  wild  countiy,  with  a park  or  two  here  and 
there,  a police-barrack  perched  on  a hill,  a half-starved-looking 
church  stretching  its  long  scraggy  steeple  over  a wide  plain, 
mountains  whose  base  is  richl}’  cultivated  while  their  tops  are 
purple  and  lonel}’,  warm  cottages  and  farms  nestling  at  the  foot 
of  the  hills,  and  humble  cabins  here  and  there  on  the  wayside, 
accompaii}’  the  car,  that  jingles  back  over  fifteen  miles  of  ground 
through  Inniskeriy  to  Bra}’.  You  pass  by  wild  gaps  and  Greater 
and  Lesser  Sugar  Loaves  ; and  alwiit  eight  o’clock,  when  the 
sky  is  quite  red  with  sunset,  and  the  long  shadows  are  of  such 
a purple  as  (they  may  say  what  they  like)  Claude  could  no  more 
paint  than  I can,  }’Ou  catch  a glimpse  of  the  sea  beyond  Bray, 
and  crying  out,  ^ ^ eaXarra,  6dXaTTa  \ ” affect  to  be  wondrously 
delighted  by  the  sight  of  that  element. 

The  fact  is,  however,  that  at  Bray  is  one  of  the  best  inns  in 
Ireland  ; and  there  you  may  be  perfectly  sure  is  a good  dinner 
ready,  five  minutes  after  the  honest  car-boy,  with  innumerable 
hurroos  and  smacks  of  his  whip,  has  brought  up  his  passengers 
to  the  door  with  a gallop. 


As  for  the  Vale  of  Avoca,  I have  not  described  that : be- 
cause (as  has  been  before  occasionally  remarked)  it  is  vain  to 
attempt  to  describe  natural  beauties  ; and  because,  secondly 
(though  tills  is  a minor  consideration),  we  did  not  go  thither. 
But  we  went  on  another  day  to  the  Dargle,  and  to  Shanganah, 
and  the  city  of  Cabinteely,  and  to  the  Scalp  — that  wild  pass  : 
and  I have  no  more  to  say  about  them  than  about  the  Vale  of 
Avoca.  The  Dublin  Cockney,  who  has  these  places  at  his  door, 

Barrow,  that  thougli  he  wears  a ragged  coat  his  manners  are  those  of  a 
gentleman,  and  his  conversation  evinces  no  small  talent,  taste,  and  schoh 
arship. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


229 


knows  them  quite  well ; and  as  for  the  Londoner,  who  is  medi- 
tating a trip  to  the  Rhine  for  the  summer,  or  to  Brittany  or 
Normandy,  let  us  beseech  him  to  see  his  own  country  first  (if 
Lord  Lyndhurst  will  allow  us  to  call  this  a part  of  it)  ; and 
if,  after  twcnt}'-four  hours  of  an  eas}"  journey  from  London, 
the  Cockney  be  not  placed  in  the  midst  of  a countiy  as  beau- 
tiful, as  strange  to  him,  as  romantic  as  the  most  imaginative 
man  on  'Change  can  desire,  — ma}'  this  work  be  praised  by  the 
critics  all  round  and  never  reach  a second  edition ! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

COUNTRY  MEETINGS  IN  KILDARE  — MEATH DROGHEDA. 

An  agricultural  show'  w’as  to  be  held  at  the  towm  of  Naas, 
and  I was  glad,  after  having  seen  the  grand  exhibition  at  Cork, 
to  be  present  at  a more  hoincb',  unpretending  countiy  festival, 
where  the  eyes  of  Europe,  as  the  orators  sa}',  did  not  happen 
to  be  looking  on.  Perhaps  men  are  apt,  under  the  idea  of 
this  sort  of  inspection,  to  assume  an  air  somewhat  more  pom- 
pous and  magnificent  than  that  -which  they  -w'ear  eveiy  day. 
The  Naas  meeting  wuas  conducted  wdthout  the  slightest  attempt 
at  splendor  or  dispkw  — a hearty,  modest,  matter-of-fact  coun- 
try meeting. 

Market-day  was  fixed  upon  of  course,  and  the  towm,  as  we 
drove  into  it,  wms  thronged  with  frieze  coats,  the  mai'ket-place 
bright  with  a great  number  of  apple-Malls,  and  the  street  filled 
with  carts  and  vans  of  numerous  small  tradesmen,  vending 
cheeses,  or  cheap  crockeries,  or  ready-made  clothes  and  such 
goods.  A clothier,  with  a great  crowd  round  him,  had  arrayed 
himself  in  a staring  new'  wxaistcoat  of  his  stock,  and  was  turn- 
ing slowiy  round  to  exhibit  the  garment,  spouting  all  the 
wiiile  to  his  audience,  and  informing  them  that  he  could  fit  out 
any  person,  in  one  minute,  “in  a complete  new^  shuit  from 
head  to  fut.”  There  seemed  to  be  a ci’owtI  of  gossips  at 
every  shop  door,  and,  of  course,  a number  of  gentlemen  wait- 
ing at  the  inn-steps,  criticising  the  cars  and  carriages  as  they 
drove  up.  Only  those  wiio  live  in  small  towms  know  what  an 
object  of  interest  the  street  becomes,  and  the  carriages  and 
horses  which  pass  therein.  Most  of  the  gentlemen  had  sent 


230 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


stock  to  compete  for  the  prizes.  The  shepherds  were  tending 
the  stock.  The  judges  were  making  their  award,  and  until 
their  sentence  was  given,  no  competitors  could  enter  the  show- 
yard.  The  entrance  to  that,  meanwhile,  was  thronged  by  a 
great  posse  of  people,  and  as  the  gate  abutted  upon  an  old  gray 
tower,  a number  of  people  had  scaled  that,  and  were  looking  at 
the  beasts  in  the  court  below.  Likewise,  there  was  a tall  hay- 
stack, which  possessed  similar  advantages  of  situation,  and 
was  equally  thronged  with  men  and  bo^’s.  The  rain  had  fallen 
heav%  all  night,  the  heavens  were  still  black  with  it,  and  the 
coats  of  the  men,  and  the  red  feet  of  many  ragged  female 
spectators,  were  liberall}^  spattered  with  mud. 

The  first  object  of  interest  we  were  called  upon  to  see  was 
a famous  stallion ; and  passing  through  the  little  b}-streets 
(dirt}^  and  small,  but  not  so  small  and  dirt}^  as  other  b3^-streets 
to  be  seen  in  Irish  towns),  we  came  to  a porte-cochere,  lead- 
ing into  a 3'ard  filled  with  wet  fresh  ha^^,  sinking  juicih^  under 
the  feet;  and  here  in  a shed  was  the  famous  stallion.  His 
sire  must  have  been  a French  diligence-horse ; he  w^as  of  a 
roan  color,  with  a broad  chest,  and  short,  clean  legs.  His 
forehead  was  ornamented  with  a blue  ribbon,  on  which  his 
name  and  prizes  were  painted,  and  on  his  chest  hung  a couple 
of  medals  b}'  a chain  — a silver  one  awarded  to  him  at  Cork, 
a gold  one  carried  off  b}'  superior  merit  from  other  stallions 
assembled  to  contend  at  Dublin.  When  the  points  of  the  ani- 
mal were  sufficient!}"  discussed,  a mare,  his  sister,  was  pro- 
duced, and  admired  still  more  than  himself.  Any  man  who  has 
witnessed  the  performance  of  the  French  horses  in  the  Havre 
diligence,  must  admire  the  vast  strength  and  the  extraordinary 
swiftness  of  the  breed  ; and  it  was  agreed  on  all  hands,  that 
such  horses  would  prove  Valuable  in  this  country,  where  it  is 
hard  now  to  get  a stout  horse  for  the  road,  so  much  has  the 
fashion  for  blood,  and  nothing  but  blood,  prevailed  of  late. 

By  the  time  the  stallion  was  seen,  the  judges  had  done 
their  arbitration ; and  we  went  to  the  yard,  where  broad- 
backed  sheep  were  resting  peaceably  in  their  pens  ; bulls  were 
led  about  by  the  nose  ; enormous  turnips,  both  Swedes  and 
Aberdeens,  reposed  in  the  mud  ; little  cribs  of  geese,  hens,  and 
peafowl  were  come  to  try  for  the  prize  ; and  pigs  might  be  seen 
— some  encumbered  with  enormous  families,  others  with  fat 
merely.  They  poked  up  one  brute  to  walk  for  us  : he  made, 
after  many  futile  attempts,  a desperate  rush  forward,  his  leg 
almost  \ost  in  fat,  his  immense  sides  quivering  and  shaking 
with  the  exercise  ; he  was  then  allowed  to  return  to  his  straw, 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


23  L 

into  which  he  sank  panting.  Let  ns  hope  that  he  went  home 
with  a pink  ribbon  round  his  tail  that  night,  and  got  a prize 
for  his  obesit3^ 

I think  the  pink  ribbon  was,  at  least  to  a Cockne}^  the 
pleasantest  sight  of  all : for  on  the  evening  after  the  show  we 
saw'  man}'  carts  going  away  so  adorned,  having  carried  off 
prizes  on  the  occasion.  First  came  a great  bull  stepping 
along,  he  and  his  driver  having  each  a bit  of  pink  on  their 
heads  ; then  a cart  full  of  sheep  ; then  a car  of  good-natured- 
looking  people,  having  a churn  in  the  midst  of  them  that 
sported  a pink  favor.  When  all  the  prizes  were  distributed,  a 
select  compau}'  sat  down  to  dinner  at  Macavo}'’s  Hotel ; and 
no  doubt  a reporter  who  was  present  has  given  in  the  count}^ 
paper  an  account  of  all  the  good  things  eaten  and  said.  At 
our  end  of  the  table  we  had  saddle-of-mutton,  and  I remarked 
a boiled  leg  of  the  same  delicac}',  with  turnips,  at  the  oppo- 
site extremity.  Before  the  vice  I observed  a large  piece  of 
roast-beef,  which  I could  not  observe  at  the  end  of  dinner, 
because  it  was  all  swallowed.  After  the  mutton  we  had  cheese, 
and  were  just  beginning  to  think  that  we  had  dined  veiy  suffi- 
cientl}',  when  a squadron  of  apple-pies  came  smoking  in,  and 
convinced  us  that,  in  such  a glorious  cause,  Britons  are  never 
at  fault.  We  ate  up  the  apple-pies,  and  then  the  punch  was 
called  for  by  those  who  preferred  that  beverage  to  wine,  and 
the  speeches  began. 

The  chairman  gave  “ The  Queen,”  nine  times  nine  and  one 
cheer  more  ; “ Prince  Albert  and  the  rest  of  the  Ro}'al  Family,” 
great  cheering;  “The  Lord-Lieutenant”  — his  Excellency’s 
health  was  receiyed  rather  coolly,  I thought.  And  then  began 
the  real  business  of  the  night:  health  of  the  Naas  Society, 
health  of  the  Agricultural  Society,  and  healths  all  round ; not 
forgetting  the  Sallymount  Beagles,  and  the  Kildare  Foxhounds 
— which  toasts  were  receiyed  with  loud  cheers  and  halloos  by 
most  of  the  gentlemen  present,  and  elicited  brief  speeches  from 
the  masters  of  the  respective  hounds,  promising  good  sport 
next  season.  After  the  Kildare  Foxhounds,  an  old  farmer 
in  a gray  coat  got  gravely  up,  and  without  being  requested  to 
do  so  in  the  least,  sang  a song,  stating  that 

“ At  seven  in  the  morning  by  most  of  the  clocks 
We  rode  to  Kilruddery  in  search  of  a fox  ; ” 

and  at  the  conclusion  of  his  song  challenged  a friend  to  give 
another  song.  Another  old  farmer,  on  this,  rose  and  sang  one 
of  Morris’s  songs  with  a great  deal  of  queer  humor ; and  no 


232 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


doubt  man}’  more  songs  were  sung  during  the  evening,  fbt 
plenty  of  hot-water  jugs  were  blocking  the  door  as  we  went 
out. 

The  joll}’  frieze-coated  songster  who  celebrated  the  Kilrud- 
der}'  fox,  sang,  it  must  be  confessed,  most  wofull}’  out  of  tune  ; 
but  still  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  him,  and  I think  the  meeting 
was  the  most  agreeable  one  I have  seen  in  Ireland : there  was 
more  good-humor,  more  cordial  union  of  classes,  more  frank- 
ness and  manliness,  than  one  is  accustomed  to  find  in  Irish 
meetings.  All  the  speeches  were  kind-hearted,  straightforward 
speeches,  without  a word  of  politics  or  an  attempt  at  oratory  : 
it  was  impossible  to  say  whether  the  gentlemen  present  were 
Protestant  or  Catholic,  — each  one  had  a hearty  word  of  en- 
couragement for  his  tenant,  and  a kind  welcome  for  his  neigh- 
bor. There  were  forty  stout,  w’ell-to-do  farmers  in  the  room, 
renters  of  fifty,  seventy,  a hundred  acres  of  land.  There  were 
no  clergymen  present ; though  it  would  have  been  pleasant  to 
have  seen  one  of  each  persuasion  to  say  grace  for  the  meeting 
and  the  meat. 

At  a similar  meeting  at  Baltytore  the  next  da}’,  I had  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  a still  finer  collection  of  stock  than  had 
been  brought  to  Naas,  and  at  the  same  time  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  flourishing  villages  in  Ireland.  The  road  to  it  from 

H town,  if  not  remarkable  for  its  rural  beauty,  is  pleasant 

to  travel,  for  evidences  of  neat  and  prosperous  husbandry  are 
around  you  everywhere  : rich  crops  in  the  fields  and  neat  cot- 
tages by  the  roadside,  accompanying  us  as  far  as  Bally  tore  — 
a white,  straggling  village,  surrounding  green  fields  of  some 
five  furlongs  square,  with  a river  running  in  the  midst  of  them, 
and  numerous  fine  cattle  in  the  green.  Here  is  a large  wind- 
mill, fitted  up  like  a castle,  with  battlements  and  towers  : the 
castellan  thereof  is  a good-natured  old  Quaker  gentleman,  and 
numbers  more  of  his  following  inhabit  the  town. 

The  consequence  was  that  the  shops  of  the  village  were  the 
neatest  possible,  though  by  no  means  grand  or  portentous.  Why 
should  Quaker  shops  be  neater  than  other  shops  ? They  suffer 
to  the  full  as  much  oppression  as  the  rest  of  the  hereditary 
bondsmen  ; and  yet,  in  spite  of  their  tyrants,  they  prosper. 

I must  not  attempt  to  pass  an  opinion  upon  the  stock 
exhibited  at  Ballytore  ; but,  in  the  opinion  of  some  large  agri- 
cultural proprietors  present,  it  might  have  figured  with  advan- 
tage in  any  show  in  England,  and  certainly  was  finer  than  the 
exhibition  at  Naas  ; which,  however,  is  a very  young  society. 
The  best  part  of  the  show,  how’ever,  to  everybody’s  thinking, 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


(iind  it  is  pleasant  to  observe  the  manly  faii'plav  spirit  wliieli 
eliaraeterizes  the  soeiety),  was,  tliat  the  pilzes  of  the  Irish 
Agricultural  Society  were  awarded  to  two  men  — one  a laborer, 
the  other  a very  small  holder,  both  having  reared  the  best  stock 
exhibited  on  the  occasion.  At  the  dinner,  which  took  place 
in  a barn  of  the  inn,  smartly  decorated  with  laurels  for  the 
purpose,  there  was  as  good  and  stout  a body  of  yeomen  as  at 
Naas  the  day  previous,  l)ut  only  two  landlords  ; and  here,  too, 
as  at  Naas,  neither  priest  nor  parson.  Cattle-feeding  of  course 
formed  the  principal  theme  of  the  after-dinner  discourse  — not, 
however,  altogether  to  the  exclusion  of  tillage  ; and  there  was 
a good  and  useful  prize  lor  those  who  could  not  atfoi'd  to  rear 
fat  oxen  — for  the  best  kept  cottage  and  garden,  namely  — 
which  wms  won  by  a poor  man  with  a large  fainil}^  and  scant}' 
precarious  earnings,  but  who  yet  found  means  to  make  the 
most  of  his  small  resources  and  to  keep  his  little  cottage  neat 
and  cleanly.  The  tariff  and  the  plentiful  haryest  together  had 
helped  to  bring  down  [n  ices  severel}- ; and  we  heard  from  tlie 
farmers  much  desponding  talk.  1 saw  hay  sold  for  21.  the  ton, 
and  oats  for  8s.  "dd.  the  l)arrel. 

In  the  little  village  1 remarked  scarcely  a single  beggar, 
and  very  few  bare  feet  indeed  among  the  crowds  who  came 
to  see  the  show.  Here  the  Quaker  village  had  the  advantage 
of  the  town  of  Naas,  in  spite  of  its  poor-house,  which  was 
only  half  full  when  we  went  to  see  it ; but  the  people  prefer 
beggary  and  starvation  abroad  to  comfort  and  neatness  in  the 
union -house. 

A neater  establishment  cannot  be  seen  than  this  ; and  liberty 
must  be  very  sweet  indeed,  when  people  prefer  it  and  starvation 
to  the  certainty  of  comfort  in  the  union-house.  We  went  to  see 
it  after  the  show  at  Naas. 

The  first  persons  we  saw  at  the  gate  of  the  place  were  four 
buxom  lasses  in  blue  jackets  and  petticoats,  who  were  giggling 
and  laughing  as  gayly  as  so  many  young  heiresses  of  a thousand 
a year,  and  who  had  a color  in  their  cheeks  that  any  lady  of 
Almack’s  might  envy.  They  were  cleaning  pails  and  carrying  in 
water  from  a green  court  or  playground  in  front  of  the  house, 
which  some  of  the  able-bodied  men  of  the  place  were  busy  in  in- 
closing. Passing  through  the  large  entrance  of  the  house,  a non- 
descript Gothic  building,  we  came  to  a court  divided  by  a road 
and  two  low  walls  : the  right  inclosure  is  devoted  to  the  boys  of 
the  establishment,  of  whom  there  w'ere  about  fifty  at  play  : boys 
more  healthy  or  happy  it  is  impossible  to  see.  Separated  from 
them  is  the  nursery ; aiad  here  were  seventy  or  eighty  young 


234 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


children,  a shrill  clack  of  happ}^  voices  leading  the  way  to  the 
door  where  they  were  to  be  found.  Boys  and  children  had  a 
comfortable  little  uniform,  and  shoes  were  furnished  for  all,* 
though  the  authorities  did  not  seem  particular!}"  severe  in  en- 
forcing the  wearing  of  the  shoes,  which  most  of  the  young  per- 
sons left  behind  them. 

In  spite  of  all  The  Times's  in  the  world,  the  place  was  a 
happy  one.  It  is  kept  with  a neatness  and  comfort  to  which, 
until  his  entrance  into  the  union-house,  the  Irish  peasant  must 
perforce  have  been  a stranger.  All  the  rooms  and  passages 
are  white,  well  scoured,  and  airy  ; all  the  windows  are  glazed  ; 
all  the  beds  have  a good  store  of  blankets  and  sheets.  In  the 
women’s  dormitories  there  lay  several  infirm  persons,  not  ill 
enough  for  the  infirmary,  and  glad  of  the  society  of  the  com- 
mon room  : in  one  of  the  men’s  sleeping-rooms  we  found  a 
score  of  old  gray-coated  men  sitting  round  another  who  was 
reading  prayers  to  them.  And  outside  the  place  we  found  a 
woman  starving  in  rags,  as  she  had  been  ragged  and  starving 
for  years  : her  husband  was  wounded,  and  lay  in  his  house  upon 
straw  ; her  children  were  ill  with  a fever  ; she  had  neither  meat, 
nor  physic,  nor  clothing,  nor  fresh  air,  nor  warmth  for  them ; — 
and  she  preferred  to  starve  on  rather  than  enter  the  house ! 

The  last  of  our  agricultural  excursions  was  to  the  fair  of 
Castledermot,  celebrated  for  the  show  of  cattle  to  be  seen  there, 
and  attended  by  the  farmers  and  gentry  of  the  neighboring 
counties.  Long  before  reaching  the  place  we  met  troops  of 
cattle  coming  from  it  — stock  of  a beautiful  kind,  for  the  most 
part  large,  sleek,  white,  long-backed,  most  of  the  larger  ani- 
mals being  bound  for  England.  There  was  very  near  as  fine  a 
show  in  the  pastures  along  the  road  — which  lies  across  a light 
green  country  with  plenty  of  trees  to  ornament  the  landscape, 
and  some  neat  cottages  along  the  roadside. 

At  the  turnpike  of  Castledermot  the  droves  of  cattle  met  us 
b}"  scores  no  longer,  but  by  hundreds,  and  the  long  street  of 
the  place  was  thronged  with  oxen,  sheep,  and  horses,  and  with 
those  who  wished  to  see,  to  sell,  or  to  buy.  The  squires  were 
all  together  in  a cluster  at  the  police-house  ; the  owners  of  the 
horses  rode  up  and  down,  showing  the  best  paces  of  their 
brutes : among  whom  you  might  see  Paddy,  in  his  ragged 
frieze-coat,  seated  on  his  donkey’s  bare  rump,  and  proposing 
him  for  sale.  I think  I saw  a score  of  this  humble  though 
useful  breed  that  were  brought  for  sale  to  the  fair.  “ I can 
sell  him,”  says  one  fellow,  with  a pompous  air,  “ wid  his  tackle 
or  widout.”  He  was  looking  as  grave  over  the  negotiation  as 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


235 


if  it  had  been  for  a thousand  pounds.  Besides  the  donkeys,  of 
course  there  was  plent}'  of  poultiy,  and  there  were  pigs  without 
number,  shrieking  and  struggling  and  pushing  hither  and 
thither  among  the  crowd,  rebellious  to  the  straw-rope.  It  was 
a fme  thing  to  see  one  huge  grunter  and  the  manner  in  which 
he  was  landed  into  a cart.  The  cart  was  let  down  on  an  easy 
inclined  plane  to  tempt  him  : two  men  ascending,  urged  him  hy 
the  forelegs,  other  two  entreated  him  by  the  tail.  At  length, 
when  more  than  half  of  his  body  had  been  coaxed  upon  the  cart, 
it  was  suddenly  whisked  up,  causing  the  animal  thereby  to  fall 
forward ; a parting  shove  sent  him  altogether  into  the  cart ; 
the  two  gentlemen  inside  jumped  out,  and  the  monster  was  left 
to  ride  home. 

The  farmers,  as  usual,  were  talking  of  the  tariff,  jn*edicting 
ruin  to  themselves,  as  farmers  will,  on  account  of  the  decreasing 
price  of  stock  and  the  consequent  fall  of  grain.  Perhaps  the 
person  most  to  be  pitied  is  the  poor  pig-proprietor  yonder  : it  is 
his  rent  which  he  is  carrying  through  the  market  squeaking  at  the 
end  of  the  straw-rope,  and  Sir  Robert’s  bill  adds  insolvenc}"  to 
that  poor  fellow’s  miseiy. 

This  was  the  last  of  the  sights  which  the  kind  owner  of 

H town  had  invited  me  into  his  country  to  see  ; and  I think 

they  were  among  the  most  pleasing  I witnessed  in  Ireland. 
Rich  and  poor  were  working  friendlily  together ; priest  and 
parson  were  alike  interested  in  these  honest,  homely,  agricul- 
tural festivals ; not  a word  was  said  about  hereditary  bondage 
and  English  t3’ranny  ; and  one  did  not  much  regret  the  absence 
of  those  patriotic  topics  of  conversation.  If  but  for  the  sake 
of  the  change,  it  was  pleasant  to  pass  a few  da}'s  with  people 
among  whom  there  was  no  quarelling  : no  furious  denunciations 
against  PopeiT  on  the  part  of  the  Protestants,  and  no  tirades 
against  the  parsons  from  their  bitter  and  scornful  opponents  of 
the  other  creed. 

^ Next  Sunda}^  in  the  county  Meath,  in  a quiet  old  church 
Ijdng  amongst  meadows  and  fine  old  statelv  avenues  of  trees, 
and  for  the  benefit  of  a congregation  of  some  thirtv  persons, 

I heard  for  the  space  of  an  hour  and  twenty  minutes  some 
thorough  Protestant  doctrine,  and  the  Popish  superstitions  • 
properly  belabored.  Does  it  strengthen  a man  in  his  own 
creed  to  hear  his  neighbor’s  belief  abused  ? One  would  imagine 
so  : foi’  tliough  abuse  converts  nobody,  vet  manv  of  our  pastors 
think  tliey  are  not  doing  their  duty  by  their  own  fold  unless 
they  fling  stones  at  the  flocik  in  the  next  held,  and  have, 
for  the  honor  of  the  service,  a match  at  cudgelling  with 


236 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


the  shepherd.  Our  shepherd  to-day  was  of  this  pugnacious 
sort. 

The  Meath  landscape,  if  not  varied  and  picturesque,  is  ex- 
tremely rich  and  pleasant ; and  we  took  some  drives  along  the 
banks  of  the  Bourne  — to  the  noble  park  of  Slane  (still  sacred  to 
the  memory  of  George  IV.,  who  actuall}^  condescended  to  pass 
some  days  there),  and  to  Trim  — of  which  the  name  occurs  so 
often  in  Swift’s  Journals,  and  where  stands  an  enormous  old 
castle  that  was  inhabited  by  Prince  John.  It  was  taken  from 
him  by  an  Irish  chief,  our  guide  said  ; and  from  the  Irish  chief 
it  was  taken  b}^  Oliver  Cromwell.  O’Thuselah  was  the  Irish 
chiefs  name  no  doubt. 

Here  too  stands,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  most  wretched 
towns  in  Ireland,  a pillar  erected  in  honor  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington by  the  gentry  of  his  native  county.  His  birthplace, 
Dangan,  lies  not  far  off.  And  as  we  saw  the  hero’s  statue,  a 
flight  of  birds  had  hovered  about  it : there  was  one  on  each 
epaulette  and  two  on  his  marshal’s  staff.  Besides  these  won- 
ders, we  saw  a certain  number  of  beggars  ; and  a madman, 
who  was  walking  round  a mound  and  preaching  a sermon  on 
grace  ; and  a little  child’s  funeral  came  passing  through  the 
dismal  town,  the  only  stirring  thing  in  it  (the  coffin  was  laid  on 
a one-horse  countiy  car  — a little  deal  box,  in  which  the  poor 
child  la}"  — and  a great  troop  of  people  followed  the  humble 
procession)  ; and  the  inn -keeper,  who  had  caught  a few  stray 
gentlefolk  in  a town  where  travellers  must  be  rare  ; and  in  his 
inn  — which  is  more  gaunt  and  miserable  than  the  town  itself, 
and  which  is  by  no  means  rendered  more  cheerful  because  sun- 
dry theological  works  are  left  for  the  rare  frequenters  in  the 
coffee-room  — the  inn-keeper  brought  in  a bill  which  would 
have  been  worthy  of  Long’s,  and  which  was  paid  with  much 
grumbling  on  both  sides. 

It  would  not  be  a bad  rule  for  the  traveller  in  Ireland  to 
avoid  those  inns  where  theological  works  are  left  in  the  coffee- 
room.  He  is  pretty  sure  to  be  made  to  pay  very  dearly  for 
these  religious  privileges. 

We  waited  for  the  coach  at  the  beautiful  lodge  and  gate  of 
•Annsbrook;  and  one  of  the  sons  of  the  house  coming  up, 
invited  us  to  look  at  the  domain,  which  is  as  pretty  and^  neath 
ordered  as  — as  any  in  England.  It  is  hard  to  use  this  com- 
parison so  often,  and  must  make  Irish  hearers  angry.  Cant 
one  see  a neat  house  and  grounds  without  instantly  thinking 
that  they  are  worthy  of  the  sister  country  ; and  implying-,  hi  our 
cool  way,  its  superiority  to  everywhere  else?  Walking  in  this 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


237 


gentleman’s  groiuids,  I told  him,  in  the  simplicity  of  my  heart, 
that  the  neighboring  country  was  like  Warwickshire,  and  the 
grounds  as  good  as  any  English  park.  Is  it  the  fact  that  Eng- 
lish grounds  are  superior,  or  only  that  Englishmen  are  disposed 
to  consider  them  so  ? 

A pretty  little  twining  river,  called  the  Nanny’s  AYater,  runs 
through  the  park  : there  is  a legend  about  that,  as  about  other 
places.  Once  upon  a time  (ten  thousand  years  ago).  Saint 
Ikitrick  being  thirsty  as  he  passed  by  this  country,  came  to  the 
house  of  an  old  woman,  of  whom  lie  asked  a drink  of  milk. 
The  old  woman  brought  it  to  his  reverence  with  the  best  of 
welcomes,  and  ....  here  it  is  a great  mercy  that  the  Belfast 
mail  comes  up,  whereby  the  reader  is  spared  the  rest  of  the 
histoiy. 

The  Belfiist  mail  had  only  to  carry  us  live  miles  to  Drogheda, 
but,  in  revenge,  it  made  us  pa\’  three  shillings  for  the  live  miles  ; 
and  again,  b}’  way  of  compensation,  it  carried  us  over  five  miles 
of  a country  that  wms  worth  at  least  five  shillings  to  see  — not 
romantic  or  especially  beautiful,  but  having  the  best  of  all 
beaut3"  — a quiet,  smiling,  prosperous,  unassuming  work-day 
look,  that  in  views  and  landscapes  most  good  judges  admire. 
Hard  by  Nanu3’’s  Water,  we  came  to  Duleek  Bridge,  where,  I 
was  told,  stands  an  old  residence  of  the  De  Dath  family,  who 
were,  moreover,  builders  of  the  picturesque  old  bridge. 

The  road  leads  over  a wide  green  common,  which  puts  one 
in  mind  of  Eng — (a  plague  on  it,  there  is  the  comparison 
again  !),  and  at  the  end  of  the  common  lies  the  village  among 
trees  : a beautiful  and  peaceful  sight.  In  the  background  there 
was  a tall  iv^'-covered  old  tower,  looking  noble  and  imposing, 
but  a ruin  and  useless  ; then  there  was  a church,  and  next  to 
it  a chapel  — the  very  same  sun  was  shining  upon  both.  The 
chapel  and  church  were  connected  by  a farm-jmrd,  and  a score 
of  golden  ricks  were  in  the  background,  the  churches  in  unison, 
and  the  people  (typified  by  the  corn-ricks)  fiourishing  at  the 
feet  of  both.  Ma}'  one  ever  hope  to  see  the  day  in  Ireland 
when  this  little  landscape  allegory  shall  find  a general  appli- 
cation ? 

Eor  some  way  after  leaving  Duleek  the  road  and  the  country 
round  continued  to  wear  the  agreeable,  cheerful  look  just  now 
lauded.  You  pass  by  a house  where  James  II.  is  said  to  have 
slept  the  night  before  the  battle  of  the  Boyne  (he  took  care  to 
sleep  far  enough  off  on  the  night  after),  and  also  In'  an  old  red- 
brick hall  standing  at  the  end  of  an  old  chace  or  terrace-avenue, 
that  runs  for  o.bout  a mile  down  to  the  house,  and  finishes  at  a 


238 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


moat  towards  the  road.  But  as  the  coach  arrives  near  Drogheda, 
and  in  the  boulevards  of  that  town,  all  resemblance  to  England 
is  lost.  Up  hill  and  down,  we  pass  low  rows  of  filthy  cabins  in 
dirty  undulations.  Parents  are  at  the  cabin-doors  dressing  the 
hair  of  ragged  children  ; shock-heads  of  girls  peer  out  from  the 
black  circumference  of  smoke,  and  cliildren  inconceivabl}^  filthy 
yell  wildlj^  and  A^ociferousl}^  as  the  coach  passes  b}\  One  little 
ragged  savage  rushed  furiously  up  the  hill,  speculating  upon 
permission  to  put  on  the  drag-chain  at  descending,  and  hoping 
for  a halfpenny  reward.  He  put  on  the  chain,  but  the  guard 
did  not  give  a halfpenny.  I flung  him  one,  and  the  boy  rushed 
wildly  after  the  carriage,  holding  it  up  with  jo3^  “The  man 
inside  has  given  me  one,”  sa^^s  he,  holding  it  up  exultingl}^  to 
the  guard.  I flung  out  another  (by-the-by,  and  without  any 
prejudice,  the  halfpence  in  Ireland  are  smaller  than  those  of 
England),  but  when  the  child  got  this  halfpenn}^  small  as  it 
was,  it  seemed  to  overpower  him : the  little  man’s  look  of 
gratitude  was  worth  a great  deal  more  than  the  biggest  penn}' 
ever  struck. 

The  town  itself,  which  I had  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to 
ramble  through,  is  smoky,  dirty,  and  lively.  There  was  a great 
bustle  ill  the  black  Main  Street,  and  several  good  shops,  though 
some  of  the  houses  were  in  a half  state  of  ruin,  and  battered 
shutters  closed  many  of  the  windows  where  formerl}"  had  been 
“ emporiums,”  “repositories,”  and  other  grandlj- -titled  abodes 
of  small  commerce.  Exhortations  to  “ repeal”  were  liberally 
plastered  on  the  blackened  walls,  proclaiming  some  past  or 
promised  visit  of  the  “ great  agitator.”  From  the  bridge  is  a 
good  bustling  spectacle  of  the  river  and  the  craft ; the  quays 
were  grimy  with  the  discharge  of  the  coal-vessels  that  lay  along- 
side them  ; the  warehouses  were  not  less  black  ; the  seamen 
and  porters  loitering  on  the  quay  were  as  swarth}^  as  those  of 
Puddledock  ; numerous  factories  and  chimneys  were  vomiting 
huge  clouds  of  black  smoke  : the  commerce  of  the  town  is  stated 
by  the  Guide-book  to  be  considerable,  and  increasing  of  late 
years.  Of  one  part  of  its  manufactures  every  traveller  must 
speak  with  gratitude  — of  the  ale  namelj',  which  is  as  good  as 
the  best  brewed  in  the  sister  kingdom.  Drogheda  ale  is  to  be 
drunk  all  over  Ireland 'in  the  bottled  state  : candor  calls  for  the 
acknowledgment  that  it  is  equally  praiseworth}"  in  draught. 
And  while  satisf3ung  himself  of  this  fact,  the  philosophic  observer 
cannot  but  ask  wh}"  ale  should  not  be  as  good  elsewhere  as  at 
Drogheda  : is  the  water  of  the  Boyne  the  only  water  in  Ireland 
whereof  ale  can  be  made  ? 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


239 


Above  the  river  and  craft,  and  the  smoky  quays  of  the  town, 
the  hills  rise  abruptly,  up  wdiich  innumerable  cabins  clamber. 
On  one  of  them,  by  a church,  is  a round  tower,  or  fort,  with  a 
flag : the  church  is  the  successor  of  one  battered  down  by 
Cromwell  in  1649,  in  his  frightful  siege  of  the  place.  The  place 
of  one  of  his  batteries  is  still  marked  outside  the  town,  and 
known  as  ‘‘Cromwell’s  Mount here  he  “ made  the  breach 
assaultable,  and,  by  the  help  of  God,  stormed  it.”  He  chose 
the  strongest  point  of  the  defence  for  his  attack. 

After  being  twice  beaten  back,  by  the  divine  assistance  he 
was  enabled  to  succeed  in  a third  assault : he  “ knocked  on  the 
head  ” all  the  officers  of  the  garrison  ; he  gave  orders  that  none 
of  the  men  should  be  spared.  “ I think,”  says  he,  “ that  night 
we  put  to  the  sword  two  thousand  men  ; and  one  hundred  of 
them  having  taken  possession  of  St.  Peter’s  steeple  and  a round 
tower  next  the  gate,  called  St.  Sunday’s,  I ordered  the  steeple 
of  St.  Peter’s  to  be  fired,  when  one  in  the  flames  was  heard  to 
say,  ‘ God  confound  me,  I burn,  I burn  ! ’ ” The  Lord  Gen- 
eral’s history  of  “ this  great  mercy  vouchsafed  to  us  ” concludes 
with  appropriate  religious  reflections  : and  prays  Mr.  Speaker 
of  the  House  of  Commons  to  remember  that  “it  is  good  that 
God  alone  have  all  the  gloiy.”  Is  not  the  recollection  of  this 
butcherv  almost  enough  to  make  an  Irishman  turn  rebel  ? 

When  troops  marched  over  the  bridge,  a }’oung  friend  of 
mine  (whom  I shrewdly  suspected  to  be  an  Orangeman  in  his 
heart)  told  me  that  their  bands  played  the  “Boyne  Water.” 
Here  is  another  legend  of  defeat  for  the  Irishman  to  muse  upon  ; 
and  here  it  was,  too,  that  King  Richard  II.  received  the  homage 
of  four  Irish  kings,  who  flung  their  skenes  or  daggers  at  his  feet 
and  knelt  to  him,  and  were  wonder-stricken  hy  the  riches  of 
his  tents  and  the  garments  of  his  knights  and  ladies.  I think 
it  is  in  Lingard  that  the  stoiy  is  told  ; and  the  antiquarian  has 
no  doubt  seen  that  beautiful  old  manuscript  at  the  British 
Museum  where  these  3’ellow-mantled  warriors  are  seen  riding 
down  to  the  King,  splendid  in  his  forked  beard,  and  peaked 
shoes,  and  long  dangling  scolloped  sleeves  and  embroidered 
gown. 

The  Bovne  winds  picturesquelv  round  two  sides  of  the  town, 
and  following  it,  we  came  to  the  Linen  Hall,  — in  the  days  of 
the  linen  manufacture  a place  of  note,  now  the  place  where  Mr. 
O’Connell  harangues  the  people  ; but  all  the  windows  of  the 
house  were  barricaded  when  we  passed  it,  and  of  linen  or  an}' 
other  sort  of  merchandise  there  seemed  to  be  none.  Three  bo}'S 
were  running  past  it  with  a mouse  tied  to  a string  and  a dog 


240 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


galloping  after ; two  little  children  were  paddling  down  the 
street,  one  saying  to  the  other,  '•'•Once  I had  a halfpenny^  aiui 
bought  apples  with  it.”  The  barges  w^ere  lying  lazil}^  on  the 
river,  on  the  opposite  side  of  which  was  a wood  of  a gen- 
tleman’s domain,  over  which  the  i-ooks  were  cawing ; and 
bj’  the  shore  were  some  ruins  — “where  Mr.  Ball  once  had 
his  kennel  of  hounds”  — touching  reminiscence  of  former 
prosperity  ! 

There  is  a very  large  and  ugly  Roman  Catholic  chapel  in 
the  town,  and  a smaller  one  of  better  construction  : it  was  so 
crowded,  however,  although  on  a week-day,  that  we  could  not 
pass  be}’ond  the  chapel-3'ard  — where  were  great  crowds  of 
people,  some  praying,  some  talking,  some  buying  and  selling. 
There  were  two  or  three  stalls  in  the  3’ard,  such  as  one  sees 
near  continental  churches,  presided  over  b3’  old  women,  with  a 
store  of  little  brass  crucifixes,  beads,  books,  and  benitiers  for 
the  faithful  to  purchase.  The  church  is  large  and  commodious 
within,  and  looks  (not  like  all  other  churches  in  Ireland)  as  if 
it  were  frequented.  There  is  a hideous  stone  monument  in  the 
church3'ard  representing  two  corpses  half  rotted  awa3^ : time  or 
neglect  had  battered  awa3’  the  inscription,  nor  could  we  see  the 
dates  of  some  older  tombstones  in  the  ground,  which  were 
mouldering  awa3^  in  the  midst  of  nettles  and  rank  grass  on  the 
wall. 

B3^  a large  public  school  of  some  reputation,  where  a hundred 
boys  were  educated  (mv  young  guide  the  Orangeman  was  one 
of  them  : he  related  with  much  glee  how,  on  one  of  the  Libera- 
tor’s visits,  a schoolfellow  had  waved  a blue  and  orange  flag 
from  the  wundow  and  cried,  “ King  .William  for  eA^er,  and  to 
hell  with  the  Pope  ! ”),  there  is  a fine  old  gate  leading  to  the 
river,  and  in  excellent  preservation,  in  spite  of  time  and  Oliver 
Cromwell.  It  is  a good  specimen  of  Irish  architecture.  B3" 
this  time  that  exceedingl3^  slow  coach  the  “ Newiy  Lark  ” 
had  arrived  at  that  exceedingl3^  filthy  inn  where  the  mail  had 
dropped  us  an  hour  before.  An  enormous  Englishman  was 
holding  a vain  combat  of  wit  with  a brawny,  grinning  beggar- 
Avoman  at  the  door.  “There’s  a clever  gentleman,”  sa3’s  the 
beggar-woman.  “Sure  he’ll  give  me  something.”  “How 
much  should  3^011  like?”  sa3^s  the  Englishman,  with  playful 
jocularit3’.  “ Musha,”  sa3's  she,  “ maiw  a littler  man  nor  3^011 
has  given  me  a shilling.”  The  coach  drives  aw-a3" ; the  lad3^ 
had  clearl3'  the  best  of  the  joking-match  ; but  I did  not  see,  for 
all  that,  that  the  Englishman  gave  her  a single  farthing. 

From  Castle  Bellingham  — as  famous  for  ale  as  Drogheda, 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


241 


and  remarkable  likewise  for  a still  better  thing  than  ale,  an  ex- 
cellent resident  proprietress,  whose  fine  park  lies  by  the  road, 
and  1)3"  whose  care  and  taste  the  village  has  l)een  rendered  one 
of  the  most  neat  and  elegant  1 have  } et  seen  in  Ireland  — the 
road  to  Dundalk  is  exceedingly  picturesque,  and  the  traveller 
has  the  pleasure  of  feasting  his  eyes  with  the  noble  line  of 
Mourne  Mountains,  which  rise  before  him  while  he  jonrne3"s 
over  a level  countiy  for  several  miles.  The  “ Newry  Lark,” 
to  be  sure,  disdained  to  take  advantage  of  the  eas}"  roads  to 
accelerate  its  movements  in  an}"  wa}" ; but  the  aspect  of  the 
country  is  so  pleasant  that  one  can  afford  to  loiter  over  it. 
The  fields  were  }"ellow  with  the  stubble  of  the  corn  — which  in 
this,  one  of  the  chief  corn  counties  of  Ireland,  had  just  been 
cut  down  ; and  a long  straggling  line  of  neat  farm-houses  and 
cottages  runs  almost  the  whole  way  from  Castle  Bellingham  to 
Dundalk.  For  nearl}"  a couple  of  miles  of  the  distance,  the 
road  runs  along  the  picturesque  flat  called  Lnrgan  Green  ; and 
gentlemen’s  residences  and  parks  are  numerous  along  the  road, 
and  one  seems  to  have  come  amongst  a new  race  of  people,  so 
trim  are  the  cottages,  so  neat  the  gates  and  hedges,  in  this 
peaceful,  smiling  district.  The  people,  too,  show  signs  of  the 
general  prosperit}".  A national  school  has  just  dismissed  its 
female  scholars  as  we  pass  through  Diinlar ; and  though  the 
children  had  most  of  them  bare  feet,  their  clothes  were  good 
and  clean,  their  faces  ros}"  and  bright,  and  their  long  hair  as 
shin}"  and  as  nicel}"  combed  as  young  ladies’  need  to  be.  Nu- 
merous old  castles  and  towers  stand  on  the  road  here  and  there  ; 
and  long  before  we  entered  Dundalk  we  had  a sight  of  a huge 
factory-chimney  in  the  town,  and  of  the  dazzling  white  walls  of 
the  Roman  Catholic  church  lately  erected  there.  The  cabin- 
suburb  is  not  great,  and  the  entrance  to  the  town  is  much 
adorned  by  the  hospital  — a handsome  Elizabethan  building  — 
and  a row  of  houses  of  a similar  architectural  style  which  lie 
on  the  left  of  the  traveller. 


242 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

DUNDALK. 

The  stranger  can't  fail  to  be  struck  with  the  look  of  Dundalk, 
as  he  has  been  with  the  villages  and  country  leading  to  it,  when 
contrasted  with  places  in  the  South  and  West  of  Ireland.  The 
coach  stopped  at  a cheerful-looking  Place^  of  which  almost  the 
onl}^  dilapidated  mansion  was  the  old  inn  at  which  it  discharged 
us,  and  which  did  not  hold  out  much  prospect  of  comfort.  But 
in  justice  to  the  ‘‘King’s  Arms”  it  must  be  said  that  good 
beds  and  dinners  are  to  be  obtained  there  by  voyagers  ; and  if 
they  choose  to  arrive  on  days  when  his  Grace  the  Most  Rever- 
end the  Lord  Archbishop  of  Armagh  and  Primate  of  Ireland, 
is  dining  with  his  clergy,  the  house  of  course  is  crowded,  and 
the  waiters,  and  the  boy  who  carries  in  the  potatoes,  a little 
hurried  and  flustered.  When  their  reverences  were  gone,  the 
laity  were  served  ; and  I have  no  doubt,  from  the  leg  of  a duck 
which  I got,  that  the  breast  and  wings  must  have  been  very 
tender. 

Meanwhile  the  walk  was  pleasant  through  the  bustling  little 
town.  A grave  old  church  with  a tall  copper  spire  defends 
one  end  of  the  Main  Street ; and  a little  wa}^  from  the  inn 
is  the  superb  new  chapel,  which  the  architect,  Mr.  Duff, 
has  copied  from  King’s  College  Chapel  in  Cambridge.  The 
ornamental  part  of  the  interior  is  not  }'et  completed  ; but  the 
area  of  the  chapel  is  spacious  and  noble,  and  three  handsome 
altars  of  scagliola  (or  some  composition  resembling  marble) 
have  been  erected,  of  handsome  and  suitable  form.  When  113^ 
the  aid  of  further  subscriptions  the  church  shall  be  completed, 
it  will  be  one  of  the  handsomest  places  of  worship  the  Roman 
Catholics  [)ossess  in  this  countiy.  Opposite  the  chapel  stands 
a neat  low  black  building  — the  gaol : in  the  middle  of  the 
building,  and  over  the  doorwa}",  is  an  ominous  balcoi\y  and 
window,  with  an  iron  beam  overhead.  Each  end  of  the  beam 
is  ornamented  with  a grinning  iron  skull ! Is  this  the  hanging- 
place?  and  do  these  grinning  cast-iron  skulls  facetiouslj'  explain 
the  business  for  which  the  beam  is  there?  For  shame!  for 
shame  I Such  disgusting  emblems  ought  no  longer  to  dis- 
grace a Christian  land.  If  kill  we  must,  let  us  do  so  with 
as  much  despatch  and  decency  as  possible,  — not  brazen 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


243 


out  our  misdeeds  and  perpetuate  them  in  this  frightful  satiric 
way. 

A far  better  cast-iron  emblem  stands  over  a handsome  shop 
in  the  “ Place  ” hard  by  — a plougli  namely,  which  figures  over 
the  factoiy  of  Mr.  Shekelton,  whose  industry  and  skill  seem  to 
liave  brought  the  greatest  benefit  to  his  fellow-townsmen  — of 
whom  he  employs  numbers  in  his  foundries  and  workshops. 
This  gentleman  was  kind  enough  to  show  me  through  his  man- 
ufactories, where  all  sorts  of  iron- works  are  made,  from  a steam- 
engine  to  a door-key  ; and  I saw  everything  to  admire,  and  a 
vast  deal  more  than  I could  understand,  in  the  bus^",  cheerful, 
orderl}’,  bustling,  clanging  place.  Steam-boilers  were  ham- 
mered here,  and  pins  made  by  a hundred  busy  hands  in  a man- 
ufactory above.  There  was  the  engine-room,  where  the  monster 
was  whirring  his  ceaseless  wheels  and  directing  the  whole 
operations  of  the  factoiy,  fanning  the  forges,  turning  the  drills, 
blasting  into  the  pipes  of  the  smelting-houses  : he  had  a house 
to  himself,  from  which  his  orders  issued  to  the  different  estab- 
lishments round  about.  One  machine  vvas  quite  awful  to  me, 
a gentle  cockney,  not  used  to  such  things  : it  was  an  iron- 
devourer,  a wretch  with  huge  jaws  and  a narrow  mouth,  ever 
opening  and  shutting  — opening  and  shutting.  You  put  a 
half-inch  iron  plate  between  his  jaws,  and  the^'  shut  not  a 
whit  slower  or  quicker  than  before,  and  bit  through  the  iron  as 
if  it  were  a sheet  of  paper.  Below  the  monster’s  mouth  was  a 
punch  that  performed  its  duties  with  similar  dreadful  calmness, 
going  on  its  rising  and  falling. 

I was  so  luck}'  as  to  have  an  introduction  to  the  Vicar  of 
Dundalk,  which  that  gentleman’s  kind  and  generous  nature 
interpreted  into  a claim  for  unlimited  hospitality  ; and  he  was 
good  enough  to  consider  himself  bound  not  only  to  receive  me, 
but  to  give  up  previous  engagements  abroad  in  order  to  do  so. 
I need  not  say  that  it  afforded  me  sincere  pleasure  to  witness, 
for  a couple  of  days,  his  labors  among  his  people  ; and  indeed 
it  was  a delightfui  occupation  to  watch  both  flock  and  pastor. 
The  world  is  a wicked,  selfish,  abominable  place,  as  the  parson 
tells  us ; but  his  reverence  comes  out  of  his  pulpit  and  gives 
the  flattest  contradiction  to  his  doctrine  : busying  himself  with 
kind  actions  from  morning  till  night,  denying  to  himself,  gen- 
erous to  others,  preaching  the  truth  to  young  and  old,  clothing 
the^  naked,  feeding  the  hungry,  consoling  the  wretched,  and 
giving  hope  to  the  sick  ; — and  I do  not  mean  to  say  that  this 
sort  of  life  is  led  by  the  Vicar  of  Dundalk  merely,  but  do  firmly 
believe  that  it  is  the  life  of  the  great  majority  of  the  Protestant 


244 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


and  Roman  Catholic  clergy  of  the*  country.  There  will  be  no 
breach  of  confidence,  I hope,  in  publishing  here  tlie  journal  of  a 
couple  of  days  spent  with  one  of  these  reverend  gentlemen,  and 
telling  some  readers,  as  idle  and  profitless  as  the  writer,  what 
the  clerg}’man’s  peaceful  labors  are. 

In  the  first  place,  we  set  out  to  visit  the  church  — the  coin- 
fortable  copper-spired  old  edifice  that  was  noticed  two  pages 
back.  It  stands  in  a green  churchyard  of  its  ovrn,  ver}-  neat 
and  trimly  kept,  with  an  old  row  of  trees  that  were  dropping 
their  red  leaves  upon  a flock  of  vaults  and  tombstones  below. 
The  building  being  much  injured  by  flame  and  time,  some 
hundred  years  back  was  repaired,  enlarged,  and  ornamented  — 
as  churches  in  those  daj’s  were  ornamented  — and  has  conse- 
quentl}’  lost  a good  deal  of  its  Gothic  character.  There  is  a 
great  mixture,  therefore,  of  old  style  and  new  style  and  no 
Btj'le  : but,  with  all  this,  the  church  is  one  of  the  most  commo- 
dious and  best  appointed  I have  seen  in  Ireland.  The  vicar 
held  a council  with  a builder  regarding  some  ornaments  for  the 
roof  of  the  church,  which  is,  as  it  should  be,  a great  object  of 
his  care  and  architectural  taste,  and  on  which  he  has  spent  a 
eery  large  sum  of  11101103'.  To  these  expenses  he  is  in  a manner 
bound,  for  the  living  is  a considerable  one,  its  income  being  no 
less  than  two  hundred  and  fift}'  pounds  a 3'ear ; out  of  which 
he  has  merel}’  to  maintain  a couple  of  curates  and  a clerk  and 
sexton,  to  contribute  largel3'  towards  scliools  and  hospitals, 
and  relieve  a few  scores  of  pensioners  of  his  own,  who  are 
fitting  objects  of  private  bounty. 

We  went  from  the  church  to  a school,  which  has  been  long 
a favorite  resort  of  the  good  vicar’s  : indeed,  to  judge  from  the 
schoolmaster’s  books,  his  attendance  there  is  almost  dail3',  and 
the  number  of  the  scholars  some  two  hundred.  The  number 
was  considerably  greater  until  the  schools  of  the  Educational 
Board  were  established,  when  the  Roman  Catholic  clerg3"men 
withdrew  many  of  their  young  people  from  Mr.  Thackera3’’s 
establishment. 

AYe  found  a large  room  with  sixt}'  or  seventy  bo3'S  at  work  ; 
in  an  upper  chamber  were  a considerable  number  of  girls,  witli 
their  teachers,  two  modest  and  iiretty  young  women ; but  the 
favorite  resort  of  the  vicar  was  evidently  the  Infant-School,  — 
and  no  wonder : it  is  impossible  to  witness  a more  beautiful  or 
touching  sight. 

Eighty  of  these  little  people,  health}',  clean,  and  rosy  — 
some  in  smart  gowns  and  slioes  and  stockings,  some  with 
patched  pinafores  and  little  bare  pink  feet  — sat  upon  a half- 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


245 


dozen  low  benches,  and  were  singmg,  at  the  top  of  their  four- 
score fresh  voices,  a song  when  we  entered.  All  the  voices 
were  hushed  as  the  vicar  came  in.  and  a great  bobbing  and 
curtsying  took  place  ; whilst  a hundred  and  sixty  innocent 
eyes  turned  awfully  towards  the  clergyman,  who  tried  to  look 
as  unconcerned  as  possible,  and  began  to  make  his  little  ones  a 
speech.  •*  I have  brought,”  says  he.  *•  a gentleman  from  Eng- 
land, who  has  heard  of  my  little  children  and  their  school,  and 
hopes  he  will  carry  away  a good  account  of  it.  Now.  you 
know,  we  must  all  do  our  best  to  be  kind  and  civil  to  strangers  : 
what  can  we  do  here  for  this  gentleman  that  he  would  like?  — 
do  you  think  he  would  like  a song?” 

(All  the  children.)  — **  We'll  sing  to  him  I ” 

Then  the  schoolmistress,  coming  forward,  sang  the  first 
words  of  a hymn,  which  at  once  eighty  little  voices  took  up.  or 
near  eighty  — for  some  of  the  little  things  were  too  young  to 
sing  yet.  and  all  they  could  do  was  to  beat  the  measure  with 
little  i-ed  hands  as  the  others  sang.  It  was  a hymn  about 
heaven,  with  a chorus  of  *•  Oh  that  will  be  joyful,  joyful.”  and 
one  of  the  verses  beginning.  ••  Little  children  will  be  there.” 
Some  of  iny  fair  readers  (if  I have  the  honor  to  lind  such)  who 
have  been  present  at  similar  tender,  charming  concerts,  know 
the  hymn,  no  doubt.  It  was  the  first  time  I had  ever  heard  it ; 
and  I do  not  care  to  own  that  it  brought  tears  to  my  eyes, 
though  it  is  ill  to  parade  such  kind  of  sentiment  in  print.  But 
I think  I will  never,  while  I live,  forget  tiiat  little  chorus,  nor 
would  any  man  who  has  ever  loved  a child  or  lost  one.  God 
bless  you.  O little  happy  singers  ! What  a noble  and  useful 
life  is  his.  who.  in  place  of  seeking  wealth  or  honor,  devotes 
Ills  life  to  such  a service  as  this  I And  all  through  our  country, 
thank  God  ! in  quiet  humble  corners,  that  busy  citizens  and 
men  of  the  world  never  liear  of.  there  are  thousands  of  such 
men  employed  in  such  holy  pursuits,  with  no  reward  be\t)nd 
that  which  the  fullilment  of  duty  brirjgs  them.  IMost  of  these 
children  were  Roman  Catholics.  At  this  tender  age  the  priests 
do  not  care  to  separate  them  from  their  little  Protestant  brethren  : 
and  no  wonder.  He  must  be  a child-murdering  Herod  who 
nvould  find  the  heart  to  do  so. 

After  tlie  hymn,  the  children  went  through  a little  Scripture 
vxatechism.  answering  A'ery  correctly,  and  all  in  a breath,  as  the 
mistress  put  the  questions.  Some  of  them  were,  of  course,  too 
young  to  understand  the  words  they  uttered  ; but  the  answers 
are  so  simple  that  they  cannot  fail  to  understand  them  before 
long ; and  they  learn  in  spite  of  themselves. 


246 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


The  jeatechism  being  ended,  another  song  was  sung ; and 
'now  the  vicar  (who  had  been  humming  the  chorus  along  with 
his  young  singers,  and,  in  spite  of  an  awful  and  grave  counte- 
nance, could  not  help  showing  his  extreme  happiness)  made 
another  oration,  in  which  he  stated  that  the  gentleman  from 
England  was  perfectly  satisfied  ; that  he  would  have  a good 
report  of  the  Dundalk  children  to  carry  home  with  him  ; that 
the  da}"  was  very  fine,  and  the  schoolmistress  would  probably 
like  to  take  a w"alk  ; and,  finally,  would  the  young  people  give 
her  a holiday?  “As  many,”  concluded  he,  “ as  will  give  the 
schoolmistress  a holiday,  hold  up  their  hands  ! ” This  question 
was  carried  unanimously. 

But  I am  bound  to  say,  when  the  little  people  were  told  that 
as  many  as  wouldn't  like  a holiday  were  to  hold  up  their  hands, 
all  the  little  hands  went  up  again  exactly  as  before : by  which 
it  may  be  concluded  either  that  the  infants  did  not  understand 
his  reverence’s  speech,  or  that  they  were  just  as  happy  to  stay 
at  school  as  to  go  and  play ; and  the  reader  may  adopt  which- 
ever of  the  reasons  he  inclines  to.  It  is  probable  that  both 
are  correct. 

The  little  things  are  so  fond  of  the  school,  the  vicar  told  me 
as  we  walked  away  from  it,  that  on  returning  home  they  like 
nothing  better  than  to  get  a number  of  their  companions  who 
don’t  go  to  school,  and  to  play  at  infant-school. 

They  may  be  heard  singing  their  hymns  in  the  narrow  alleys 
and  humble  houses  in  which  they  dwell : and  I was  told  of  one 
dying  who  sang  his  song  of  “ Oh  that  will  be  joyful,  joyful,”  to 
his  poor  mother  weeping  at  his  bedside,  and  promising  her  that 
they  should  meet  where  no  parting  should  be. 

“ There  was  a child  in  the  school,”  said  the  vicar,  “ whose 
father,  a Roman  Catholic,  was  a carpenter  by  trade,  a good 
workman,  and  earning  a considerable  weekly  sum,  but  neglect- 
ing his  wife  and  children  and  spending  his  earnings  in  drink. 
AV'e  have  a song  against  drunkenness  that  the  infants  sing  ; and 
one  evening,  going  home,  the  child  found  her  father  excited 
witii  liquor  and  ill-treating  his  wife.  The  little  thing  forthwith 
interposed  between  them,  told  her  father  what  she  had  heard 
at  school  regarding  the  criminality  of  drunkenness  and  quarrel- 
ling, and  finished  her  little  sermon  with  the  hymn.  The  father 
was  first  amused,  then  touched ; and  the  end  of  it  was  that  he 
kissed  his  wife  and  asked  her  to  forgive  him,  hugged  his  child, 
and  from  that  day  would  always  have  her  in  his  bed,  made  her 
sing  to  him  morning  and  night,  and  forsook  his  old  haunts  for 
the  sake  of  his  little  companion.” 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  ROOK. 


247 


He  was  quite  sober  and  prosperous  for  eight  months  ; but 
rfie  vicar  at  the  end  of  that  time  began  to  remark  that  the  child 
looked  ragged  at  school,  and  passing  b}"  her  mother’s  house, 
saw  the  poor  woman  with  a black  e3’e.  If  it  was  an}*  one  but 

your  husband,  JMrs.  C , who  gave  you  that  black  eye,”  says 

the  vicar,  tell  me  ; but  if  he  did  it,  don’t  say  a word.”  The 
woman  was  silent,  and  soon  after,  meeting  her  husband,  the 
vicar  took  him  to  task.  “You  were  sober  for  eight  months. 

Now  tell  me  fairly,  C ,”  says  he,  “ were  you  happier  when 

you  lived  at  home  with  your  wife  and  child,  or  are  3’ou  more 
happ3'  now?”  The  man  owned  that  he  was  much  happier 
formerl3q  and  the  end  of  the  conversation  was  that  he  promised 
to  go  home  once  more  and  tiy  the  sober  life  again,  and  he  went 
home  and  succeeded. 

The  vicar  continued  to  hear  good  accounts  of  him  ; but 
passing  one  day  bv  his  house  he  saw  the  wife  there  looking 
veiy  sad.  “Had  her  husband  relapsed?”  — “No,  he  was 
dead,”  she  said — “ dead  of  the  cholera  ; but  he  had  been  sober 
ever  since  his  last  conversation  with  the  clergyman,  and  had 
done  his  duty  to  his  family  up  to  the  time  of  his  death.”  “ I 
said  to  the  woman,”  said  the  good  old  clergyman,  in  a grave 
low  voice,  “ ‘Your  husband  is  gone  now  to  the  place  where, 
according  to  his  conduct  here,  his  eternal  reward  will  be  as- 
signed him  ; and  let  us  be  thankful  to  think  what  a different 
position  he  occupies  now  to  that  which  he  must  have  held  had 
not  his  little  girl  been  the  means  under  God  of  converting 
him.’  ” 

Our  next  walk  was  to  the  Count3^  Hospital,  the  handsome 
edifice  which  ornaments  the  Drogheda  entrance  of  the  town, 
and  which  I had  remarked  on  m3'  arrival.  Concerning  this 
hospital,  the  governors  were,  when  I passed  through  Dundalk, 
in  a state  of  no  small  agitation  : for  a gentleman  by  the  name 

of , who,  from  being  an  apothecaiy’s  assistant  in  the  place, 

liad  gone  forth  as  a sort  of  amateur  inspector  of  hospitals 
throughout  Ireland,  had  thought  fit  to  censure  their  extrava- 
gance in  erecting  the  new  building,  stating  that  the  old  one  was 
fully  sufficient  to  hold  fift3"  patients,  and  that  the  public  mone3' 

might  consequentl3"  have  been  spared.  Mr.  ’s  plan  for  the 

better  maintenance  of  them  in  general  is,  that  commissioners 
should  be  appointed  to  direct  them,  and  not  count3’  gentlemen 
as  heretofore ; the  discussion  of  which  question  does  not  need 
to  be  carried  on  in  this  humble  work. 

M3'  guide,  who  is  one  of  the  governors  of  the  new  hospital, 
<5onducted  me  in  the  first  place  to  the  old  one  — a small  dirty 


248 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


house  in  a clamp  and  low  situation,  with  but  three  rooms  to 
accommodate  patients,  and  these  evident!}'  not  fit  to  hold  fifty, 
or  even  fifteen  patients.  The  new  hospital  is  one  of  the  hand- 
somest buildings  of  the  size  and  kind  in  Ireland  — an  ornament 
to  the  to  veil,  as  the  angry  commissioner  stated,  but  not  after  ail 
a building  of  undue  cost,  for  the  expense  of  its  erection  was  but 
3,000/.  ; and  the  sick  of  the  county  are  far  better  accommodated 
in  it  than  in  the  damp  and  unwholesome  tenement  regretted  by 
the  eccentric  commissioner. 

An  English  architect,  Mr.  Smith  of  Hertford,  designed  and 
completed  the  edifice  ; strange  to  say,  only  exceeding  his  esti-. 
mates  by  the  sum  of  three-and-sixpence,  as  the  worthy  governor 
of  the  hospital  with  great  triumph  told  me.  The  building  is 
certainly  a wonder  of  cheapness,  and,  what  is  more,  so  com- 
plete for  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  intended,  and  so  hand- 
some in  appearance,  that  the  architect’s  name  deserves  to  be 
published  by  all  who  hear  it ; and  if  any  country-newspaper 
editors  should  notice  this  volume,  they  are  requested  to  make 
the  fact  known.  The  house  is  provided  with  every  convenience 
for  men  and  women,  with  all  the  appurtenances  of  baths,  water, 
gas,  airy  wards,  and  a garden  for  convalescents  ; and,  below, 
a dispensary,  a handsome  board-room,  kitchen,  and  matron’s 
apartments,  &c.  Indeed,  a noble  requiring  a house  for  a large 
establishment  need  not  desire  a handsomer  one  than  this,  at  its 
moderate  price  of  3,000/.  The  beauty  of  this  building  has,  as 
is  almost  always  the  case,  created  emulation,  and  a terrace 
in  the  same  taste  has  been  raised  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
hospital. 

From  the  hospital  we  bent  our  steps  to  the  Institution  ; of 
which  place  I give  below  the  rules,  and  a copy  of  the  course 
of  study,  and  the  dietary : leaving  English  parents  to  consider 
the  fact,  that  their  children  can  be  educated  at  this  place  for 
thirteen  pounds  a year.  Nor  is  there  anything  in  the  establish- 
ment savoring  of  the  Dotheboys  Hall.'^'  I never  saw,  in  any 

‘‘  Boarders  are  received  from  the  age  of  eight  to  fourteen  at  12/.  per 
annum,  and  1/.  for  washing,  paid  quarterly  in  advance. 

“ Day  scholars  are  received  from  the  age  of  ten  to  -twelve  at  2/.,  paid 
quarterly  in  advance. 

“ The  Incorporated  Society  have  abundant  cause  for  believing  that  the 
introduction  of  Boarders  into  their  Establishments  has  produced  far  more 
advantageous  results  to  the  public  than  they  could,  at  so  early  a period, 
have  anticipated ; and  tliat  the  election  of  boys  to  their  Foundations  o»//y 
after  a fair  competition  with  others  of  a given  district,  has  had  the  effect 
of  stimulating  masters  and  scliolars  to  exertion  and  study,  and  promises  to 
operate  most  beneficially  for  the.  advancement  of  religious  and  general 
knowledge. 


THE  JRISII  SKETCH  BOOK. 


249 


public  school  in  England,  sixt}^  cleaner,  smarter,  more  gentle- 
manlike boys  than  were  here  at  work.  The  upper  class  had 
been  at  work  on  Euclid  as  we  came  in,  and  were  set,  by  way 

“ The  districts  for  eligible  Candidates  are  as  follow  : — 

Dundalk  Institution  embraces  the  counties  of  Louth  and  Down,  be- 
cause the  properties  which  support  it  lie  in  this  district. 

“ The  Pococke  Institution,  Kilkenny,  embraces  the  counties  of  Kilkenny 
and  Waterford,  for  the  same  cause. 

“The  Ranelagh  Institution,  the  towns  of  Athlone  and  Roscommon, and 
three  districts  in  the  counties  of  Galway  and  Roscommon,  which  the  In- 
corporated Society  hold  in  fee,  or  from  which  they  receive  impropriate 
tithes. 

(Signed)  “ CaiSAR  Otway,  Secretary'’ 


Arrangement  of  School  Business  in  Dundalk  Institution. 

Hours. 

Monday,  Wednesday, 
and  Friday. 

Tuesday  and  Thursday. 

Saturday. 

1 to  7 

7 “ 7i 

7t  “ 81 
81  “ 9 
9‘  “ 10 
10  “ 10.1 
PM  “ Hi 
Hi  “ 12 
12  “ 12| 

12|  “ 2 

2 “ 21 
21  “ 5" 

5 “ 7i 

T “ 8 

8 “ 8i 
“ 9 
9 

Rise,  wash,  &c. 

( Scripture  by  the  Mas- 
( ter,  and  prayer. 
Reading,  History,  &c. 
Breakfast. 

Play. 

English  Grammar. 
Algebra. 

Scripture. 

Writing. 

( Arithmetic  at  Desks, 
1 and  Book-keeping. 
Dinner. 

Play. 

l Spelling,  Mental  Arith- 
( metic,  and  Euclid. 

Supper. 

Exercise. 

t Scripture  by  the  Mas- 
1 ter,  and  prayer  in 
( School-room. 

Retire  to  bed. 

Rise,  wash,  &c. 

1 Scripture  by  the  Mas- 
1 ter,  and  prayer. 
Reading,  History,  &c. 
Breakfast. 

Play. 

Geography. 

Euclid. 

j Lecture  on  principles 
1 of  Arithmetic. 
Writing. 

Mensuration. 

Dinner. 

Play. 

( Spelling,  Mental  Arith- 
i metic,  and  Euclid. 

Supper. 

Exercise. 

1 Scripture  by  the  Mas- 
< ter,  and  prayer  in 
( School- room. 

Retire  to  bed. 

Rise,  wash,  &c. 

( Scripture  by  the  Mas- 
( ter,  and  prayer. 

Reading,  History,  &c. 

Breakfast. 

Play. 

10  to  11,  Repetition. 

11  to  12,  Use  of  Globes. 

1 12  to  1,  Catechism  and 
< Scripture  by  the 
( Catechist. 

Dinner. 

fThe  remainder  of  this 
day  is  devoted  to  ex- 
ercise till  the  hour  of 
Supper,  after  which 
the  Boys  assemble  in 
1 the  School-room  and 
1 hear  a portion  of 
Scripture  read  and 
explained  by  the  Mas- 
ter, as  on  other  days,  , 
ami  conclude  with 
[ ))rayer. 

The  sciences  of  Navigation  and  practical  Surveying  are  taught  in  the  Establishment,  also 
a selection  of  the  Pupils,  who  have  a taste  for  it,  are  instructed  in  the  art  of  Drawing. 

Dietary. 

Breakfast.  - Stirabout  and  Milk,  every  Morning. 

Pinner.  — On  Sunday  and  Wednesday,  Potatoes  and  Beef;  10  ounces  of  the  latter  to 
each  boy.  On  Monday  and  Thursday,  Bread  and  Broth  ; Mb.  of  the  former  to  each  boy. 
On  Tuesday,  Friday,  and  Saturday,  Potatoes  and  Milk  ; 21bs.  of  the  former  to  each  boy. 

Supper.  — Mb.  of  Bread  witli  Milk,  uniformly,  except  on  Monday  and  Thursday:  on 
these  days.  Potatoes  and  Miik 


250 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


of  amusing  the  stranger,  to  perform  a sum  of  compound  inter- 
est  of  diabolical  complication,  which,  with  its  algebraic  and 
arithmetic  solution,  was  handed  up  to  me  b}-  three  or  four  of 
the  pupils  ; and  I strove  to  look  as  wise  as  I possibly  could. 
Then  they  went  through  questions  of  mental  arithmetic  with 
astonishing  correctness  and  facility ; and  finding  from  the 
master  that  classics  were  not  taught  in  the  school,  I took  oc- 
casion to  lament  this  circumstance,  saving,  with  a knowing  air, 
that  I would  like  to  have  examined  the  lads  in  a Greek  play. 

Classics,  then,  these  }’Oung  fellows  do  not  get.  Meat  they 
get  but  twice  a week.  Let  English  parents  bear  this  fact  in 
mind  ; but  that  the  lads  are  health}^  and  happ}^,  anybod}^  who 
sees  them  can  have  no  question  ; furthermore,  they  are  well 
instructed  in  a sound  practical  education  — histoiy,  geography, 
mathematics,  religion.  What  a place  to  know,  of  would  this 
be  for  many  a poor  half-pa}"  officer,  where  he  may  put  his  chil- 
dren in  all  confidence  that  they  will  be  well  cared  for  and 
soundly  educated  ! Why  have  we  not  State  schools  in  Eng- 
land, where,  for  the  prime  cost  — for  a sum  which  never  need 
exceed  for  a young  boy’s  maintenance  25/.  a year — our  chil- 
dren might  be  brought  up?  We  are  establishing  national 
schools  for  the  laborer : why  not  give  education  to  the  sons  of 
the  poor  gentry — the  clergyman  whose  pittance  is  small,  and 
would  still  give  his  son  the  benefit  of  a public  education  ; the 
artist,  the  officer,  the  merchant’s  office-clerk,  the  literary  man  ? 
What  a benefit  might  be  conferred  upon  all  of  us  if  honest 
charter-schools  could  be  established  for  our  children,  and  where 
it  would  be  impossible  for  Squeers  to  make  a profit ! * 

Our  next  day’s  journey  led  us,  by  half-past  ten  o’clock,  to 
the  ancient  town  of  Louth,  a little  poor  village  now,  but  a great 
scat  of  learning  and  piet}%  it  is  said,  formerly,  where  there 
stood  a university  and  abbeys,  and  where  Saint  Patrick  worked 
wonders.  Here  my  kind  friend  the  rector  was  called  upon  to 
-marry  a smart  sergeant  of  police  to  a pretty  lass,  one  of  the 
few  Protestants  who  attend  his  church  ; and,  the  ceremony 
over,  we  were  invited  to  the  house  of  the  bride’s  father  hard 
by,  w"here  the  clergyman  was  bound  to  cut  the  cake  and  drink 
a glass  of  wine  to  the  health  of  the  new-married  couple. 

* The  Proprietary  Schools  of  late  established  have  gone  far  to  ppotect 
the  interests  of  parents  and  children;  but  the  masters  of  these  schools  take 
boarders,  and  of  course  draw  profits  from  them.  Why  make  the  learned 
man  a beef-and-mutton  contractor'?  It  would  be  easy  to  arrange  the 
economy  of  a school  so  that  there  should  be  no  possibility  of  a want  of 
confidence,  or  of  peculation,  to  the  detriment  of  the  pupil. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


25i 


There  was  evidently  to  be  a dance  and  some  ineniment  in 
the  course  of  the  evening ; for  the  good  motlier  of  the  bride 
(oh,  blessed  is  he  who  has  a good  mother-in-law!)  was  busy 
at  a huge  lire  in  the  little  kitchen,  and  along  the  road  we  met 
various  parties  of  neatly-dressed  people,  and  several  of  the 
sergeant’s  comrades,  who  were  hastening  to  the  wedding.  The 
mistress  of  the  rector’s  darling  Infant-School  was  one  of  the 
bridesmaids  : consequently  the  little  ones  had  a holiday. 

But  he  was  not  to  be  disappointed  of  his  Infant-School  in 
this  manner:  so,  mounting  the  car  again,  with  a fresh  horse, 
we  went  a very  pretty  drive  of  three  miles  to  the  snug  lone 
school-house  of  Glyde  Farm  - near  a handsome  park,  I believe 
of  the  same  name,  where  the  proprietor  is  building  a mansion 
of  the  Tudoi'  order. 

The  pretty  scene  of  Dundalk  was  here  played  over  again  : 
the  children  sang  their  little  hymns,  the  good  old  clei'gyman 
joined  delighted  in  the  chorus,  the  holida}'  was  given,  and  the 
little  hands  held  up,  and  I looked  at  more  clean  bright  faces 
and  little  rosy  feet.  The  scene  need  not  be  repeated  in  print, 
but  1 can  understand  what  pleasure  a man  must  take  in  the 
daily  witnessing  of  it,  and  in  the  growth  of  these  little  plants, 
which  are  set  and  tended  by  his  care.  As  we  returned  to 
Louth,  a woman  met  us  with  a curtsy  and  expressed  her 
sorrow  that  she  had  been  obliged  to  withdraw  her  daughter 
from  one  of  the  rector’s  schools,  which  the  child  was  vexed  at 
leaving  too.  But  the  orders  of  the  })iiest  were  pereinptoiy  ; 
and  who  can  say  they  were  unjust?  The  priest,  on  his  side, 
was  only  enforcing  the  rule  which  the  parson  maintains  as  his  : 
— the  latter  will  not  permit  his  young  flock  to  be  educated 
except  upon  certain  principles  and  b}’  certain  teachers  ; the 
former  has  his  own  scruples  unfortunatel}^  also — and  so  that 
noble  and  brotherly  scheme  of  National  Education  falls  to  the 
ground.  In  Louth,  the  national  school  was  standing  bj’  the 
side  of  the  priest’s  chapel : it  is  so  almost  everywhere  through- 
out Ireland  : the  Protestants  have  rejected,  on  veiy^  good  mo- 
tives doubtless,  the  chance  of  union  which  the  Education  Board 
gave  them.  Be  it  so  ! if  the  children  of  either  sect  be  educated 
apart,  so  that  the}^  he  educated,  the  education  scheme  will  have 
})roduced  its  good,  and  the  union  will  come  afterwards. 

The  church  at  Louth  stands  boldl}"  upon  a hill  looking  down 
on  the  village,  and  has  nothing  remarkable  in  it  but  neatness, 
except  the  monument  of  a former  rector,  Dr.  Little,  which 
attracts  the  spectator’s  attention  from  the  extreme  inappro- 
l>riateness  of  the  motto  on  the  coat-of-arms  of  the  reverend 


252 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


defunct.  It  looks  rather  unorthodox  to  read  in  a Christian 
temple,  where  a man’s  bones  have  the  honor  to  lie  — and 
where,  if  anywhere,  humilit}^  is  requisite  — that  there  is  multum 
in  Parvo : “ a great  deal  in  Little.”  O Little,  in  life  you  were 
not  much,  and  lo ! 3’ou  are  less  now ; why  should  filial  piet}" 
engrave  that  pert  pun  upon  your  monument,  to  cause  people 
to  laugh  in  a place  where  they  ought  to  be  grave?  The  de- 
funct doctor  built  a very  handsome  rectoiy-house,  with  a set 
of  stables  that  would  be  useful  to  a nobleman,  but  are  rather 
too  commodious  for  a peaceful  rector  who  does  not  ride  to 
hounds  ; and  it  was  in  Little’s  time,  I believe,  that  the  church 
was  removed  from  the  old  abbe}",  where  it  formerly  stood,  to 
its  present  proud  position  on  the  hill. 

The  abbe}^  is  a fine  ruin,  the  windows  of  a good  st}de,  the 
tracings  of  carvings  on  man}"  of  them  ; but  a great  number  of 
stones  and  ornaments  were  removed  formerly  to  build  farm- 
buildings  withal,  and  the  place  is  now  as  rank  and  ruinous  as 
the  generality  of  Irish  burying-places  seem  to  be.  Skulls  lie 
in  clusters  amongst  nettle-beds  by  the  abbey  walls  ; graves  are 
only  partially  covered  with  rude  stones  ; a fresh  coffin  was  lying 
broken  in  pieces  within  the  abbey  ; and  the  surgeon  of  the  dis- 
pensary hard  b}"  might  procure  subjects  here  almost  without 
grave-breaking.  Hard  b}'  the  abbe}"  is  a building  of  which  I 
beg  leave  to  offer  the  following  interesting  sketch.^  The 
legend  in  the  countiy  goes  that  the  place  was  built  for  the 
accommodation  of  “ Saint  Murtogh,”  who  l3ing  down  to  sleep 
here  in  the  open  fields,  not  having  any  place  to  house  under, 
found  to  his  surprise,  on  waking  in  the  morning,  the  above 
edifice,  which  the  angels  had  built.  The  angelic  architecture, 
it  will  be  seen,  is  of  rather  a rude  kind  ; and  the  village  an- 
tiquaiy,  who  takes  a pride  in  showing  the  place,  says  that  the 
building  was  erected  two  thousand  years  ago.  In  the  hand- 
some  grounds  of  the  rectoiy  is  another  spot  v isited  by  popular 
tradition  — a fairy’s  ring  : a regular  mound  of  some  thirty  feet 
in  height,  flat  and  even  on  the  top,  and  provided  with  a wind- 
ing path  for  the  foot-passengers  to  ascend.  Some  trees  grew 
on  the  mound,  one  of  which  was  removed  in  order  to  make 
the  walk.  But  the  country-people  cried  out  loudly  at  this 
desecration,  and  vowed  that  the  “little  people”  had  quitted 
the  countiyside  for  ever  in  consequence. 

While  walking  in  the  town,  a woman  meets  the  rector  with 
a number  of  curtsies  and  compliments,  and  vows  that  “ ’tis 
your  reverence  is  the  friend  of  the  poor,  and  may  the  Lord  [ViX'' 

* This  refers  to  an  illustrated  edition  of  the  work. 


THE  IRTSII  SKETCH  BOOK. 


253 


serve  you  to  us  aucl  ; ” and  having  poured  out  blessings 

innumerable,  concludes  by  producing  a paper  for  her  son 
that’s  in  thronble  in  England.  The  paper  ran  to  the  effect  that 
‘‘  We,  the  undersigned,  inhal)itants  of  the  parish  of  Louth, 
liave  known  Daniel  Ilorgan  ever  since  his  youth,  and  can  speak 
confidently  as  to  his  integrit}',  piety,  and  good  conduct.”  In 
fact,  the  paper  stated  that  Daniel  Ilorgan  was  an  honor  to  his 
country,  and  consc(piently  quite  incapable  of  the  crime  of — 
sack-stealing  I think  — with  which  at  present  he  was  charged, 
and  lay  in  prison  in  Durham  Castle.  The  paper  had,  I should 
think,  come  down  to  the  poor  mother  from  Durham,  with  a 
direction  ready  written  to  despatch  it  back  again  when  signed, 
and  was  evidentl}’  the  work  of  one  of  those  Ijenevolent  individu- 
als in  assize-towns,  who,  following  the  profession  of  tlie  law, 
delight  to  extricate  unliapp}*  young  men  of  whose  innocence 
(from  various  six-and-eightpenny  motives)  they  feel  convinced. 
There  stood  the  poor  mother,  as  the  rector  examined  the  docu- 
ment, with  a huge  wafer  in  her  hand,  ready  to  forward  it  so 
soon  as  it  was  signed:  for  the  truth  is  that  “We,  the  under- 
signed,” were  as  3’et  merely  imaginary. 

“You  don’t  come  to  church,”  says  the  rector.  “ I know 
nothing  of  3^011  or  your  son  : wh\^  don’t  you  go  to  the  priest?” 

“ Oh,  your  reverence,  my  son’s  to  be  tried  next  Tuesday,” 
whimpered  the  woman.  She  then  said  the  priest  was  not  in 
the  wa}%  but,  as  we  had  seen  him  a few  minutes  before,  recalled 
the  assertion,  and  confessed  that  she  Jmd  been  to  the  priest 
and  that  he  would  not  sign  ; and  fell  to  pra3’ers,  tears,  and 
unbounded  supplications  to  induce  the  rector  to  give  his  sig- 
nature. But  that  hard-hearted  divine,  stating  that  he  had  not 
known  Daniel  Ilorgan  from  his  youth  upwards,  that  he  could 
not  certify  as  to  his  honest}'  or  dishonestjg  enjoined  the  woman 
to  make  an  attempt  upon  the  R.  C.  curate,  to  whose  hand- 
writing he  Avoiild  certify  if  need  were. 

Tlie  upshot  of  the  matter  was  that  the  woman  returned  with 
a certificate  from  the  R.  C.  curate  as  to  her  son’s  good  behavior 
while  in  the  village,  and  the  rector  certified  that  the  hand- 
writing was  that  of  the  R.  C.  clergjunan  in  question,  and  the 
woman  popped  her  big  red  wafer  into  the  letter  and  w'ent  her 
way. 

Tuesday  is  passed  long  ere  this  : Mr.  Horgan’s  guilt  or 
innocence  is  long  since  clearh^  proved,  and  he  celebrates  the 
latter  in  freedom,  or  expiates  the  former  at  the  mill.  Indeed. 
I don’t  know  that  there  was  any  call  to  introduce  his  ad- 
ventures to  the  public,  except  perhaps  it  may  be  good  to  sec 


254 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


how  in  this  little  distant  Irish  village  the  blood  of  life  is  running. 
Here  goes  a happ}’  part}^  to  a marriage,  and  the  parson  prays 
a “ God  bless  you!”  upon  them,  and  the  world  begins  for 
them.  Yonder  lies  a stall-fed  rector  in  his  tomb,  flaunting 
over  his  nothingness  his  pompous  heraldic  motto : and  3"onder 
lie  the  fresh  fragments  of  a nameless  deal  coffin,  which  any  foot 
ma}’  kick  over.  Presentl}"  30U  hear  the  clear  voices  of  little 
children  praising  God  ; and  here  comes  a mother  wringing  her 
hands  and  asking  for  succor  for  her  lad,  who  was  a child  but 
the  other  da}*.  Such  mot  us  animorum  atque  hcec  eertamina  tanla 
are  going  on  in  an  hour  of  an  October  da}^  in  a little  pinch  of 
clay"  in  the  county"  Louth. 

Perhaps  being  in  the  moralizing  strain,  the  honest  surgeon 
at  the  dispensary"  might  come  in  as  an  illustration.  He  in- 
habits a neat  humble  house,  a story"  higher  than  his  neighbors’, 
but  with  a thatched  roof.  He  relieves  a thousand  patients 
yearly-  at  the  dispensary,  he  visits  seven  hundred  in  the  parish, 
he  supplies  the  medicines  gratis  ; and  receiving  for  these  ser- 
vices the  sum  of  about  one  hundred  pounds  y-early-,  some  county- 
economists  and  calculators  are  loud  against  the  extravagance 
of  his  salary,  and  threaten  his  removal.  All  these  individuals 
and  their  histories  we  presently  turn  our  backs  upon,  for,  after 
all,  dinner  is  at  five  o’clock,  and  we  have  to  see  the  new  road 
to  Dundalk,  which  the  county  has  lately  been  making. 

Of  this  undertaking,  which  shows  some  skilful  engineering 
— some  gallant  cutting  of  rocks  and  hills,  and  filling  of  valley-s, 
with  a tall  and  handsome  stone  bridge  thrown  across  the  river, 
and  connecting  the  high  embankments  on  which  the  new  road 
at  that  place  is  formed  — I can  say  little,  except  that  it  is  a 
vast  convenience  to  the  county,  and  a great  credit  to  the  sur- 
vevor  and  contractor  too  ; for  the  latter,  though  a poor  man, 
and  losing  heavily  by  his  bargain,  has  yet  refused  to  mulct  his 
laborers  of  their  wages  ; and,  as  cheerfully  as  he  can,  still  pay's 
them  their  shilling  a day. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


25b' 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

NEWRY,  ARMAGH,  BELFAST  FROM  DUNDALK  TO  NEWRY. 

My  kind  host  gave  orders  to  the  small  ragged  boy  that  drove 
the  car  to  take  “ particular  care  of  the  little  gentleman  ; ” and 
the  car-bo}^  grinning  in  appreciation  of  the  joke,  drove  off  at 
his  best  pace,  and  lauded  his  cargo  at  Xewry  after  a pleasant 
two  hours’  drive.  The  countiy  for  the  most  part  is  wild,  but 
not  gloonn^ ; the  mountains  round  about  are  adorned  with 
wmods  and  gentlemen’s  seats  ; and  the  car-bo}'  pointed  out  one 
hill  — that  of  Slievegullion,  which  kept  us  company  all  the 
wmy  — ■ as  the  highest  hill  in  Ireland.  Ignorant  or  deceiving 
CMr-bo}’!  I have  seen  a dozen  hills,  each  the  highest  in  Ire- 
land, in  m}"  way  through  the  country,  of  which  the  inexorable 
Guide-book  gives  the  measurement  and  destroj’s  the  claim. 
\Vell,  it  was  the  tallest  hill,  in  the  estimation  of  the  car-bo}’ ; 
and,  in  this  respect,  the  world  is  full  of  car-bo}’s.  Has  not 
eveiy  mother  of  a family  a Slievegullion  of  a son,  who,  accord- 
ing to  her  measurement,  towers  above  all  other  sons?  Is  not 
the  patriot,  who  believes  himself  equal  to  three  Frenchmen,  a 
car-boy  in  heart?  There  was  a kind  young  creature,  with  a 
child  in  her  lap,  that  evidently  held  this  notion.  She  paid  the 
child  a series  of  compliments,  which  would  have  led  one  to 
fancy  he  was  an  angel  from  heaven  at  the  least : and  her  hus- 
band sat  gravel}'  by,  very  silent,  with  his  arms  round  a bar- 
ometer. 

Beyond  these  there  were  no  incidents  or  characters  of  note, 
except  an  old  hostler  that  they  said  was  ninety  years  old,  and 
watered  the  horse  at  a lone  inn  on  the  road.  Stop  1 ” cried 
this  wonder  of  years  and  rags,  as  the  car.  after  considerable 
parley,  got  under  weigh.  The  car-boy  pulled  up,  thinking  a 
fresh  passenger  was  coming  out  of  the  inn. 

“ Stop^  till  one  of  the  gentlemen  gives  me  something  f says  the 
old  man,  coming  slowly  up  with  us  : which  speech  created  a 
laugh,  and  got  him  a penny ; he  received  it  without  the  least 
thankfulness,  and  went  away  grumbling  to  his  pail. 

Newry  is  remarkable  as  being  the  only  town  I have  seen 
which  had  no  cabin  suburb  : strange  to  say,  the  houses  begin 
all  at  once,  handsomely  coated  and  hatted  with  stone  and  slate  ; 
and  if  Dundalk  was  prosperous,  Newry  is  better  still.  Such  a 


2oG 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


siglit  of  neatness  and  comfort  is  exceeding’!}^  welcome  to  an 
Englisli  traveller,  who,  moreover,  finds  himself,  after  driving 
tliroiigli  a plain  bustling  clean  street,  landed  at  a large  plain 
comfortable  inn,  wdiere  business  seems  to  be  done,  where  there 
are  smart  waiters  to  receive  him,  and  a comfortable  warm  coffee- 
room  that  bears  no  traces  of  dilapidation. 

What  the  merits  of  the  cuisine  may  be  I can’t  say  for  the 
information  of  travellers  ; a gentleman  to  whom  I had  brought 
a letter  from  Dundalk  taking  care  to  provide  me  at  his  own 
table,  accompanying  me  previousl}^  to  visit  the  lions  of  the 
town.  A river  divides  it,  and  the  counties  of  Armagh  and 
Down:  the  river  runs  into  the  sea  at  Carlingford  Bay,  and  is 
connected  b}^  a canal  with  Lough  Neagh,  and  thus  with  the 
North  of  Ireland.  Steamers  to  Liverpool  and  Glasgow  sail 
continually.  There  are  mills,  foundries,  and  manufactories,  of 
which  the  Guide-book  will  give  particulars  ; and  the  town  of 
13,000  inhabitants  is  the  busiest  and  most  thriving  that  I have 
3'et  seen  in  Ireland. 

Our  first  walk  was  to  the  church : a large  and  handsome 
building,  although  built  in  the  unlucky  period  when  the  Gothic 
style  was  coming  into  vogue.  Hence  one  must  question  the 
propriet}^  of  man}'  of  the  ornaments,  though  the  whole  is  mas- 
sive, well-finished,  and  statel}'.  Near  the  church  stands  the 
Roman  Catholic  chapel,  a veiy  fine  building,  the  work  of  the 
same  architect,  Mr.  Duff,  who  erected  the  chapel  at  Dundalk  ; 
but,  like  almost  all  other  edifices  of  the  kind  in  Ireland  that  I 
have  seen,  the  interior  is  quite  unfinished,  and  alread}'  so  dirty 
and  ruinous,  that  one  would  think  a sort  of  genius  for  dilapida- 
tion must  have  been  exercised  in  order  to  bring  it  to  its  present 
condition.  There  are  tattered  green-baize  doors  to  enter  at,  a 
dirty  clay  floor,  and  cracked  plaster  walls,  with  an  injunction 
to  the  public  not  to  s})it  on  the  floor.  Ma3'iiooth  itself  is 
scarcel}'  more  dreary.  The  architect’s  work,  however,  does 
him  the  highest  credit : the  interior  of  the  church  is  noble 
and  simple  in  stvle  ; and  one  can’t  but  grieve  to  see  a fine 
work  of  art,  that  might  have  done  good  to  the  countiy,  so 
defaced  and  ruined  as  this  is. 

The  Newry  poor-house  is  as  neatly  ordered  and  comfortable 
as  any  house,  public  or  private,  in  Ireland : the  same  look  of 
health  which  was  so  pleasant  to  see  among  the  Naas  childi’cn 
of  the  union-house  was  to  be  remarked  here  : the  same  care  and 
comfort  for  the  old  people.  Of  able-l)odied  there  wei’e  but  few 
in  the  house  : it  is  in  winter  that  there  are  most  applicants  for 
this  kind  of  relief;  the  sunshine  attracts  the  women  out  of  the 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


place,  and  the  liarvest  relieves  it  of  the  men.  Cleanliness,  the 
matron  said,  is  more  intolerable  to  most  of  the  inmates  than 
any  other  regulation  of  the  house  ; and  instantly  on  quitting 
the  house  tlie}'  relapse  into  their  darling  dirt,  and  of  course  at 
their  periodical  return  are  subject  to  the  unavoidable  initiatory 
lustration. 

Newry  has  man}'  comfortable  and  handsome  public  build- 
ings : the  streets  have  a business-like  look,  the  shops 
people  are  not  too  poor,  and  the  southern  grandiloquence  is 
not  shown  here  in  the  shape  of  tine  words  for  sinajl  wares. 
Even  the  beggars  are  not  so  numerous,  I fancy,  or  so  coaxing 
and  wheedling  in  their  talk.  Perhaps,  too,  among  the  gentry, 
the  same  moral  change  may  be  remarked,  and  they  seem  more 
downright  and  plain  in  their  manner ; but  one  must  not  pretend 
to  speak  of  national  characteristic  from  such  a small  experience 
as  a couple  of  evenings’  intercourse  may  give. 

Although  not  equal  in  natural  beauty  to  a hundred  other 
routes  which  the  traveller  takes  in  the  South,  the  ride  from 
Newry  to  Armagh  is  an  extremely  pleasant. one,  on  account  of 
the  undeniable  increase  of  prosperity  which  is  visible  through 
the  country.  Well-tilled  fields,  neat  farm-houses,  well-dressed 
people,  meet  one  everywhere,  and  people  and  landscape  alike 
have  a plain,  hearty,  flourishing  look. 

The  greater  part  of  Armagh  has  the  aspect  of  a good  stout 
old  English  town,  although  round  about  the  steep  on  which  the 
cathedral  stands  (the  Roman  Catholics  have  taken  possession  of 
another  hill,  and  are  building  an  0[)position  cathedral  on  this 
eminence)  there  are  some  decidedly  Irish  streets,  and  that 
dismal  combination  of  house  and  pigsty  which  is  so  common  in 
Munster  and  Connaught. 

But  the  main  streets,  though  not  fine,  are  bustling,  substan- 
tial, and  prosperous  ; and  a fine  green  has  some  old  trees  and 
some  good  houses,  and  even  handsome  stately  public  buildings, 
round  about  it,  that  remind  one  of  a comfortable  cathedral  cit\- 
across  the  water. 

The  cathedral  service  is  more  completely  performed  here  than 
in  any  English  town,  I think.  The  church  is  small,  but  ex- 
tremely neat,  fresh  and  handsome  — almost  too  handsome  ; 
covered  with  spick-and-span  gilding  and  carved-work  in  the 
style  of  the  thirteenth  century : every  pew  as  smart  and  well- 
cushioned  as  my  lord’s  own  seat  in  the  country  church  ; and  for 
the  clergy  and  their  chief,  stalls  and  thrones  quite  curious  for 
their  ornament  and  splendor.  The  Primate  with  his  blue  ribbon 
and  badge  (to  whom  the  two  clergymen  bow  reverently  as,  pass- 


258 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


ing  between  them,  he  enters  at  the  gate  of  the  altar  rail)  looks 
like  a noble  Prince  of  the  Church ; and  I had  heard  enough  of 
his  magnificent  charity  and  kindness  to  look  with  reverence  at 
his  lofty  handsome  features. 

Will  it  be  believed  that  the  sermon  lasted  only  for  twenty 
minutes?  Can  this  be  Ireland?  I think  this  wonderful  circum- 
stance impressed  me  more  than  any  other  with  the  difference 
between  North  and  South,  and,  having  the  Primate’s  own  coun- 
tenance for  the  opinion,  may  confess  a great  admiration  for 
orthodoxy  in  this  particular. 

A beautiful  monument  to  Archbishop  Stuart,  by  Chantrej’ ; 
a magnificent  stained  window,  containing  the  arms  of  the  clergy 
of  the  diocese  ( in  the  very  midst  of  which  I was  glad  to  recog- 
nize the  sober  old  family  coat  of  the  kind  and  venerable  rector 
of  Louth),  and  numberless  carvings  and  decorations,  will  please 
the  lover  of  church  architecture  here.  I must  confess,  how- 
ever, that  in  mj^  idea  the  cathedral  is  quite  too  complete.  It  is 
of  the  twelfth  century,  but  not  the  least  venerable.  It  is  as 
neat  and  trim  as  a ladj^’s  drawing-room.  It  wants  a hundred 
years  at  least  to  cool  the  raw  colors  of  the  stones,  and  to  dull 
the  brightness  of  the  gilding  : all  which  benefits,  no  doubt,  time 
will  bring  to  pass,  and  future  Cockneys  setting  off  from  London 
Bridge  after  breakfast  in  an  aerial  machine  ma}^  come  to  hear 
the  morning  service  here,  and  not  remark  the  faults  which  have 
struck  a too  susceptible  tourist  of  the  nineteenth  centur}". 

Strolling  round  the  town  after  service,  I saw  more  decided 
signs  that  Protestantism  was  there  in  the  ascendant.  I saw  no 
less  than  three  different  ladies  on  the  prowl,  dropping  religious 
tracts  at  various  doors  ; and  felt  not  a little  ashamed  to  be  seen 
by  one  of  tliem  getting  into  a car  with  bag  and  baggage,  being 
bound  for  Belfast. 

Tlie  ride  of  ten  miles  from  Armagh  to  Portadown  was  not 
the  prettiest,  but  one  of  the  pleasantest  drives  I have  had  in 
Ireland,  for  the  country  is  well  cultivated  along  the  whole  of 
the  road,  the  trees  in  plenty,  and  villages  and  neat  houses 
always  in  sight.  The  little  farms,  with  their  orchards  and  com- 
fortable buildings,  were  as  clean  and  trim  as  could  be  wished  : 
the}’  are  mostl}’  of  one  story,  with  long  thatched  roofs  and 
shining  windows,  such  as  those  that  ma}^  be  seen  in  Normandy 
and  Picardy.  As  it  was  Sunday  evening,  all  the  people  seemed 
to  be  abroad,  some^sanntering  quietly  down  the  roads,  a pair  of 
girls  here  and  there  pacing  leisurely  in  a field,  a little  group 
seated  under  the  trees  of  an  orchard,  which  pretty  adjunct  to 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


259 


the  farm  is  ver}^  common  in  this  district ; and  the  crop  of  apples 
seemed  this  year  to  be  extremely  plenty.  The  physiognomy  of 
the  people  too  has  quite  changed  ; the  girls  have  their  hair  neatly 
l)raided  up,  not  loose  over  their  faces  as  in  the  south  ; and  not 
onl3'  are  bare  feet  very  rare,  and  stockings  extremely  neat  and 
white,  but  I am  sure  I saw  at  least  a dozen  good  silk  gowns 
upon  the  women  along  the  road,  and  scarce!}^  one  which  was  not 
clean  and  in  good  order.  The  men  for  the  most  part  hgured  in 
jackets,  caps,  and  trousers,  eschewing  the  old  well  of  a hat 
which  covers  the  popular  head  at  tlie  other  end  of  the  island, 
the  breeclies,  and  the  long  ill-made  tail-coat.  The  people’s 
faces  are  sharp  and  neat,  not  broad,  laz}',  knowing-looking,  like 
that  of  many  a shambling  Diogenes  who  maj^  be  seen  lounging 
before  his  cabin  in  Cork  or  Keriy.  As  for  the  cabins,  they 
have  disappeared  ; and  the  houses  of  the  people  ma^^  rank  de- 
cidedly as  cottages.  The  accent,  too,  is  quite  different ; but 
this  is  hard  to  describe  in  print.  The  people  speak  with  a 
Scotch  twang,  and,  as  I fancied,  much  more  simpl}^  and  to  the 
point.  A man  gives  you  a downright  answer,  without  any  grin 
or  joke,  or  attempt  at  flattery.  To  be  sure,  these  are  rather 
earl}’  da}’s  to  begin  to  judge  of  national  characteristics ; and 
veiy  likely  the  above  distinctions  have  been  drawn  after  pro- 
foundly studying  a Northern  and  a Southern  waiter  at  the  inn 
at  Armagh. 

At  an}’  rate,  it  is  clear  that  the  towns  are  vastly  improved, 
the  cottages  and  villages  no  less  so  ; the  people  look  active  and 
well-dressed  ; a sort  of  weight  seems  all  at  once  to  be  taken 
from  the  Englishman’s  mind  on  entering  the  province,  when  he 
finds  himself  once  more  looking  upon  comfort  and  activity,  and 
resolution.  What  is  the  cause  of  this  improvement?  Protes- 
tantism is,  more  than  one  Church-of-England  man  said  to  me  ; 
I)iit,  for  Protestantism,  would  it  not  be  as  well  to  read  Scotch- 
ism  ? — meaning  thrift,  prudence,  perseverance,  boldness,  and 
common-sense  ; with  which  qualities  any  body  of  men,  of  any 
Christian  denomination,  would  no  doubt  prosper. 

The  little  brisk  town  of  Portadown,  with  its  comfortable 
unpretending  houses,  its  squares  and  market-place,  its  pretty 
quay,  with  craft  along  the  river,  — a steamer  building  on  the 
dock,  close  to  mills  and  warehouses  that  look  in  a full  state  of 
prosperity,  — was  a pleasant  conclusion  to  this  ten  miles’  drive, 
that  ended  at  the  newly  opened  railway-station.  The  distance 
hence  to  Belfast  is  twenty- five  miles  ; Lough  Neagh  may  be 
seen  at  one  point  of  the  line,  and  the  Guide-book  says  that  the 
station-towns  of  Lurgan  and  Lisburn  are  extremely  picturesque  ,• 


260 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


but  it  was  night  when  I passed  them,  and  after  a journey  of 
an  hour  and  a quarter  reached  Belfast. 

That  city  has  been  discovered  by  another  eminent  Cockney 
traveller  (for  though  born  in  America,  the  dear  old  Bow-bell 
blood  must  run  in  the  veins  of  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis),  and  I have 
met,  in  the  periodical  works  of  the  country,  with  repeated  angry 
allusions  to  his  description  of  Belfast,  the  pink  heels  of  the 
chamber-maid  who  conducted  him  to  bed  (what  business  had  he 
to  be  looking  at  the  3- oung  woman’s  legs  at  all  ?)  and  his  wrath 
at  the  beggaiy  of  the  town  and  the  laziness  of  the  inhabitants, 
as  marked  by  a line  of  dirt  running  along  the  walls,  and  show- 
ing where  they  were  in  the  habit  of  lolling. 

These  observations  struck  me  as  rather  hard  when  applied 
to  Belfast,  though  possibly  pink  heels  and  beggaiy  might  be  re- 
marked in  other  cities  of  the  kingdom ; but  the  town  of  Belfast 
seemed  to  me  reall}"  to  be  as  neat,  prosperous,  and  handsome 
a city  as  need  be  seen  ; and,  with  respect  to  the  inn,  that 
in  which  I stayed,  “ Kearn’s,”  was  as  comfortable  and  well- 
ordered  an  establishment  as  the  most  fastidious  Cockne3^  can 
desire,  and  with  an  advantage  which  some  people  perhaps  do 
not  care  for,  that  the  dinners  which  cost  seven  shillings  at  Lon- 
don taverns  are  here  served  for  half  a crown  ; but,  I must 
repeat  here,  in  justice  to  the  public,  what  I stated  to  Mr.  Wil- 
liam the  waiter,  viz.  that  half  a pint  of  port  wine  does  contain 
more  than  two  glasses  — at  least  it  does  in  happ3y  liapp}"  Eng- 
land. . . . Onl}",  to  be  sure,  here  the  wine  is  good,  whereas  the 
port-wine  in  England  is  not  port,  but  for  the  most  part  an 
abominable  drink  of  which  it  would  be  a mercy  only  to  give 
us  two  glasses  : which,  however,  is  clearly  wandering  from  the 
subject  in  hand. 

They  call  Belfast  the  Irish  Liverpool.  If  people  are  for  call- 
ing names,  it  would  be  better  to  call  it  the  Irish  London  at 
once  — the  chief  city  of  the  kingdom  at  any  rate.  It  looks 
hearty,  tlniving,  and  prosperous,  as  if  it  had  money  in  its  pockets 
and  roast-beef  for  dinner : it  has  no  pretensions  to  fashion,  but 
looks  mayha[)  better  in  its  honest  broadcloth  than  some  people 
in  their  shably  brocade.  The  houses  are  as  handsome  as  at 
Dublin,  with  this  advantage,  that  the  people  seem  to  live  in 
them.  The3’  have  no  attempt  at  ornament  for  the  most  part, 
but  are  grave,  stout,  red-brick  edifices,  laid  out  at  four  angles 
in  orderly  streets  and  squares. 

The  stranger  cannot  fail  to  be  struck  (and  haply  a little 
frightened)  by  the  great  number  of  meeting-houses  that  deco- 
rate the  town,  and  give  evidence  of  great  sermonizing  on  Sun- 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


261 


days.  These  buildings  do  not  affect  the  Gothic,  like  many  of 
the  meagre  edifices  of  the  Established  and  the  Roman  Catholic 
churches,  but  have  a ph3  siognomy  of  their  own  — a thick-set 
citizen  look.  Porticos  have  the}",  to  be  sure,  and  ornaments 
Doric,  Ionic,  and  what  not?  but  the  meeting-house  peeps 
throim’h  all  these  classical  friezes  and  entablatures  ; and  thoimli 
one  reads  of  “ Imitations  of  the  Ionic  Temple  of  Ilissus,  near 
Athens,”  the  classic  temple  is  made  to  assume  a bluff,  down- 
right, Presbyterian  air,  which  would  astonish  the  original  buildei’, 
doubtless.  The  churches  of  the  Establishment  are  handsome 
and  stately.  The  Catholics  are  building  a brick  cathedral,  no 
doubt  of  the  Tudor  style  : — the  present  chapel,  flanked  by  the 
national  schools,  is  an  exceedingly  unprepossessing  building  of 
the  Strawberry  Hill  or  Castle  of  Otranto  Gothic  : the  keys  and 
mitre  figuring  in  the  centre  — “The  cross-keys  and  nightcap,” 
as  a hard-hearted  Presbyterian  called  them  to  me,  with  his 
blunt  humor. 

The  three  churches  are  here  pretty  equally  balanced : Pres- 
byterians 25,000,  Catholics  20,000,  P^piscopalians  17,000.  Each 
party  has  two  or  more  newspaper  organs  ; and  the  wars  between 
them  are  dire  and  unceasing,  as  the  reader  may  imagine.  For 
whereas  in  other  parts  of  Ireland  where  Catholics  and  Episcopa- 
lians prevail,  and  the  Presbyterian  body  is  too  small,  each  party 
has  but  one  opponent  to  belabor:  here  the  Ulster  politician, 
whatever  may  be  his  way  of  thinking,  has  the  great  advantage 
of  possessing  two  enemies  on  whom  he  may  exercise  his  elo- 
quence ; and  in  this  triangular  duel  all  do  their  duty  nobly. 
Then  there  are  subdivisions  of  hostility.  For  the  Church  thei‘e 
is  a High  Church  and  a Low  Church  journal ; for  the  Liberals 
there  is  a “ Repeal  ” journal  and  a “ No-Repeal  ” journal ; for 
the  Presbyterians  there  are  yet  more  varieties  of  journalistic 
opinion,  on  which  it  does  not  become  a stranger  to  pass  a judg- 
ment. If  the  Northern  Whig  says  that  the  Banner  of  Ulster  “ is 
a polluted  rag,  which  has  hoisted  the  red  banner  of  falsehood  ” 
(which  elegant  words  may  be  found  in  the  first-named  journal 
of  the  13th  October),  let  us  be  sure  the  Banner  has  a compli- 
ment for  the  A7;r^4em  in  return ; if  the  “Repeal”  Vindi- 

cator and  the  priests  attack  the  Presbyterian  journals  and  the 
“ home  missions,”  the  reverend  gentlemen  of  Geneva  are  quite 
as  ready  with  the  pen  as  their  brethren  of  Rome,  and  not  much 
more  scrupulous  in  their  language  than  the  laity.  When  I was 
in  Belfast,  violent  disputes  were  raging  between  Presbyterian 
and  Episcopalian  Conservatives  witli  regard  to  the  Marriage 
Bill ; l)etween  Presbyterians  and  Catholics  on  the  subject  of  the 


^262 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


“ home  missions  between  the  Liberals  and  Conservatives,  of 
course.  “ Thank  God,”  for  instance,  writes  a “ Repeal  ” jour- 
nal, ‘‘  that  the  honor  and  power  of  Ireland  are  not  involved  in 
the  disgraceful  Afghan  war  ! ” — a sentiment  insinuating  Repeal 
and  something  more  ; disowning,  not  merely  this  or  that  Minis- 
try, but  the  sovereign  and  her  jurisdiction  altogether.  But  de- 
tails of  these  quarrels,  religious  or  political,  can  tend  to  edify 
but  few  readers  out  of  the  countr}\  Even  in  it,  as  there  are 
some  nine  shades  of  politico-religious  differences,  an  observer 
pretending  to  impartiality  must  necessarily  displease  eight  par- 
ties, and  almost  certainly  the  whole  nine  ; and  the  reader  who 
desires  to  judge  the  politics  of  Belfast  must  studj^  for  himself. 
Nine  journals,  publishing  four  hundred  numbers  in  a }’ear,  each 
number  containing  about  as  much  as  an  octavo  volume : these, 
and  the  back  numbers  of  former  }"ears,  sedulousl}^  read,  will 
give  the  student  a notion  of  the  subject  in  question.  And  then, 
after  having  read  the  statements  on  either  side,  he  must  ascer- 
'tain  the  truth  of  them,  b}"  which  time  more  labor  of  the  same 
kind  will  have  grown  upon  him,  and  he  will  have  attained  a 
good  old  age. 

Amongst  the  poor,  the  Catholics  and  Presbyterians  are  said 
to  go  in  a pretty  friendlj-  manner  to  the  national  schools  ; but 
among  the  Presbjfferians  themselves  it  appears  there  are  great 
differences  and  quarrels,  by  which  a fine  institution,  the  Belfast 
Academ}',  seems  to  have  suffered  considerabl}’.  It  is  almost 
the  onl}'  building  in  this  large  and  substantial  place,  that  bears, 
to  the  stranger’s  eye,  an  unprosperous  air.  A vast  building, 
standing  fairl}^  in  the  midst  of  a handsome  green  and  place,  and 
with  snug,  comfortable  red-brick  streets  stretching  away  at  neat 
right  angles  all  around,  the  Presb3fferian  College  looks  hand- 
some enough  at  a short  distance,  but  on  a nearer  view  is  found 
in  a woful  state  of  dilapidation.  It  does  not  possess  the  su- 
preme dirt  and  filth  of  Maynooth  — that  can  but  belong  to  one 
place,  even  in  Ireland  ; but  the  building  is  in  a dismal  state  of 
unrepair,  steps  and  windows  broken,,  doors  and  stairs  battered. 
Of  scholars  I saw  but  a few,  and  these  were  in  the  drawing  acad- 
emy.  The  fine  arts  do  not  appear  as  3’et  to  fiourish  in  Belfast. 
The  models  from  which  the  lads  were  cop3dng  were  not  good  : 
one  was  copying  a bad  cop3^  of  a drawing  b3^  Prout ; one  was 
coloring  a print.  The  ragged  children  in  a German  national 
school  haA^e  better  models  before  them,  and  are  made  acquainted 
with  truer  principles  of  art  and  beaut3^ 

Hard  b3^  is  the  Belfast  Museum,  where  an  exhibition  of  pic- 
tures was  in  preparation,  under  the  patronage  of  the  Belfast  Art 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


263 


Union.  Artists  in  all  parts  of  the  kingdom  had  been  invited  to 
send  their  works,  of  which  the  Union  pa}^s  the  carriage  ; and 
the  porters  and  secretary  were  bns}"  unpacking  cases,  in  which 
1 recognized  some  of  the  works  which  had  before  figured  on  the 
walls  of  the  London  Exhibition  rooms. 

The  book-shops  which  I saw  in  this  thriving  town  said  much 
for  the  religious  disposition  of  the  Belfast  public : there  were 
numerous  portraits  of  reverend  gentlemen,  and  their  works  of 
every  variety  : — “ The  Sinner’s  Friend,’*’  “ The  Watchman  on 
the  Tower,”  “The  Peep  of  Da}^”  “ Sermons  delivered  at  Be- 
thesda  Chapel,”  by  so-and-so  ; with  hundreds  of  the  neat  little 
gilt  books  with  bad  prints,  scriptural  titles,  and  gilt  edges,  that 
come  from  one  or  two  serious  publishing  houses  in  London,  and 
in  considerable  numbers  from  the  neighboring  Scotch  shores. 
As  for  the  theatre,  with  such  a public  the  drama  can  be  ex- 
pected to  find  but  little  favor ; and  the  gentleman  who  accom- 
panied me  in  my  walk,  and  to  whom  I am  indebted  for  many 
kindnesses  during  my  stay,  said  not  onl}’  that  he  had  never 
been  in  the  playhouse,  but  that  he  never  heard  of  an}^  one  going 
thither.  I found  out  the  place  where  the  poor  neglected  Dra- 
matic Muse  of  Ulster  hid  herself ; and  was  of  a part3’  of  six  in 
the  boxes,  the  benches  of  the  pit  being  dotted  over  with  about 
a score  more.  Well,  it  was  a comfort  to  see  that  the  galler}^ 
was  quite  full,  and  exceedingly  happy  and  noisy  : they  stamped, 
and  stormed,  and  shouted,  and  clapped  in  a way  that  was 
pleasant  to  hear.  One  young  god,  between  the  acts,  favored 
the  public  with  a song  — extremely  ill  sung  certainly,  but  the 
intention  was  everything ; and  his  brethren  above  stamped  in 
chorus  with  roars  of  delight. 

As  for  the  piece  performed,  it  was  a good  old  melodrama  of 
the  British  sort,  inculcating  a thorough  detestation  of  vice  and 
a warm  sj^mpath}^  with  suffering  virtue.  The  serious  are  surely 
too  hard  upon  poor  pla3^-goers.  We  never  for  a moment  allow 
rascality  to  triumph  be}"ond  a certain  part  of  the  third  act : we 
sympathize  with  the  woes  of  young  lovers  — her  in  ringlets  and  a 
Polish  cap,  him  in  tights  and  a Vand}"ke  collar ; we  abhor  ava- 
rice or  tyranny  in  the  person  of  “ the  first  old  man”  with  the 
white  wig  and  red  stockings,  or  of  the  villain  with  the  roaring 
voice  and  black  whiskers  ; we  applaud  the  honest  wag  (he  is  a 
good  fellow  in  spite  of  his  cowardice)  in  his  hearty  jests  at  the' 
tyrant  before  mentioned  ; and  feel  a kindlj"  s^^mpath}^  with  all 
mankind  as  the  curtain  falls  over  all  the  characters  in  a group, J 
of  which  successful  love  is  the  happy  centre.  Reverend  gentle- 
men in  meeting-house  and  church,  who  shout  against  the  im;^; 


264 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


moralities  of  tJiis  poor  stage,  and  threaten  all  play-goers  with 
the  fate  which  is  awarded  to  unsuccessful  plays,  should  try  and 
bear  less  hardly  upon  us. 

An  artist  — who,  in  spite  of  the  Art  Union,  can  scarcely,  I 
should  think,  flourish  in  a place  that  seems  devoted  to  preach- 
ing, politics,  and  trade  — has  somehow  found  his  way  to  this 
humble  little  theatre,  and  decorated  it  with  some  exceedingl}' 
pretty  scenery  — almost  the  011I3’'  indication  of  a taste  for  the 
fine  arts  which  I have  found  as  3"et  in  the  countiy. 

A fine  night-exhibition  in  the  town  is  that  of  the  huge 
spinning-mills  which  surround  it,  and  of  which  the  thousand 
windows  are  lighted  up  at  nightfall,  and  ma}^  be  seen  from 
almost  all  quarters  of  the  cit}^ 

A gentleman  to  whom  I had  brought  an  introduction,  good- 
naturedlv  left  his  work  to  walk  with  me  to  one  of  these  mills, 
and  stated  b}"  whom  he  had  been  introduced  to  me  to  the  mill- 
proprietor,  Mr.  Mulholland.  “ recommendation,”  said 
Mr.  Mulholland,  gallantl}',  “is  welcome  aiy^where.”  It  was 
from  my  kind  friend  Mr.  Lever.  What  a privilege  some  men 
have,  who  can  sit  quietly  in  their  studies  and  make  friends  all 
the  world  over ! 

Here  is  the  figure  of  a 
girl  sketched  in  the  place : 
there  are  nearl}'  five  hun- 
dred girls  emplo}xd  in  it. 
They  wmi’k  in  huge  long 
chambers,  lighted  b}’  num- 
bers of  windows,  hot  with 
steam,  buzzing  and  hum- 
ming with  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  whirling 
wheels,  that  all  take  their 
motion  from  a steam-engine 
which  lives  apart  in  a hot 
cast-iron  temple  of  its  own, 
from  which  it  communi- 
cates with  the  innumerable 
machines  that  the  five  hun- 
dred girls  preside  over. 
The}^  have  seemingl}*  but 
to  take  awa}'  the  work 
when  done  — the  enormous 
monster  in  the  cast-iron 
room  does  it  all.  He  cards 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


2G5 


the  flax,  and  combs  it,  and  spins  it,  and  beats  it.  and  twists  it : 
the  five  hundred  girls  stand  by  to  feed  him,  or  take  the  material 
from  him,  when  he  has  had  his  will  of  it.  There  is  something- 
frightful  in  the  vastness  as  in  the  minuteness  of  this  power. 
Everv  thread  writhes  and  twdrls  as  the  steam-fate  orders  it,  — 
every  thread,  of  w'hich  it  would  take  a hundred  to  make  the 
thickness  of  a hair. 

I have  seldom,  I think,  seen  more  good  looks  than  amongst 
the  young  w'omen  emplo3^ed  in  this  place.  The}"  work . for 
twelve  hours  daily,  in  rooms  of  which  the  heat  is  intolerable 
to  a stranger ; but  in  spite  of  it  the\-  looked  ga}y  stout,  and 
health}- ; nor  were  their  forms  much  concealed  by  the  very 
simple  clothes  they  wear  while  in  the  mill. 

The  stranger  will  be  struck  by  the  good  looks  not  only  of 
tiiese  spinsters,  but  of  almost  all  the  young  women  in  the 
streets.  I never  saw  a town  where  so  many  women  are  to  be 
met  — so  many  and  so  pretty  — with  and  without  bonnets,  with 
good  figures,  in  neat  homely  shawls  and  dresses.  The  grisettes 
of  Belfast  are  among  the  handsomest  ornaments  of  it ; and  as 
good,  no  doubt,  and  irreproachable  in  morals  as  their  sisters  in 
tlie  rest  of  Ireland. 

Many  of  the  merchants’  counting-houses  are  crow'ded  in  little 
old-fashioned  “ entries,”  or  courts,  such  as  one  sees  about  the 
Bank  in  London.  In  and  about  these,  and  in  the  principal 
streets  in  the  daytime,  is  a gTeat  activity,  and  homely  unpre- 
tending bustle.  The  men  have  a business  look,  too  ; and  one 
sees  very  few  flaunting  dandies,  as  in  Dublin.  The  shopkeepers 
do  not  brag  upon  their  signboards,  or  keep  emporiums,”  as 
elsewhere,  — their  places  of  business  being  for  the  most  part 
homely ; though  one  may  see  some  splendid  shops,  which  are 
not  to  be  surpassed  by  London.  The  docks  and  quays  are 
busy  w-ith  their  craft  and  shipping,  upon  the  beautiful  borders 
of  the  Lough  ; — the  large  red  w-arehouses  stretching  along  the 
shores,  with  ships  loading,  or  unloading,  or  building,  hammers 
clanging,  pitch  pots  flaming  and  boiling,  seamen  cheering  in 
the  ships,  or  lolling  lazily  on  the  shore.  The  life  and  move- 
ment of  a port  here  give  the  ^stranger  plenty  to  admire  and 
observe.  And  nature  has  likew-ise  done  everything  for  the 
place  — surrounding  it  with  picturesque  hills  and  water  ; — for 
which  latter  I must  confess  I was  not  very  sorry  to  leave  the 
tow-n  behind  me,  and  its  mills,  and  its  meeting-houses,  and  its 
commerce,  and  its  theologians,  and  its  politicians. 


266 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


CHAPTER  XXVm. 

BELFAST  TO  THE  CAUSEWAY. 

The  Lough  of  Belfast  has  a reputation  for  beauty  almost  as 
,^reat  as  that  of  the  Bay  of  Dublin ; but  though,  on  the  day  I 
leTt  Belfast  for  Larne,  the  morning  was  fine,  and  the  sky  clear 
ana  blue  above,  an  envious  mist  lay  on  the  water,  which  hid  all 
its  beauties  from  the  dozen  of  passengers  on  the  Larne  coach. 
All  we  could  see  were  ghostly-looking  silhouettes  of  ships  gliding 
here  and  there  through  the  clouds ; and  I am  sure  the  coach- 
man s remark  was  quite  correct,  that  it  was  a pity  the  day  was 
so  misty.  I found  myself,  before  I was  aware,  entrapped  into 
a theological  controversy  with  two  grave  gentlemen  outside  the 
coacn  — another  fog,  which  did  not  subside  much  before  we 
reacned  Carrickfergus.  The  road  from  the  Ulster  capital  to 
that  little  town  seemed  meanwhile  to  be  extremelj"  livelj^ : cars 
and  omnibuses  passed  thickly  peopled.  For  some  miles  along 
the  road  is  a string  of  handsome  countr3-houses,  belonging  to 
the  rich  citizens  of  the  town ; and  we  passed  b}^  neat-looking 
churcnes  and  chapels,  factories  and  rows  of  cottages  clustered 
round  them,  like  villages  of  old  at  the  foot  of  feudal  castles. 
Furthermore  it  was  hard  to  see,  for  the  mist  which  la}^  on  the 
water  had  enveloped  the  mountains  too,  and  we  onl}"  had  a 
glimpse  or  two  of  smiling  comfortable  fields  and  gardens. 

Carrickfergus  rejoices  in  a real  romantic-looking  castle,  jut- 
ting bravel}"  into  the  sea,  and  famous  as  a background  for  a 
picture.  It  is  of  use  for  little  else  now,  luckily ; nor  has  it 
been  put  to  any  real  warlike  purposes  since  the  day  when 
honest  Thurot  stormed,  took,  and  evacuated  it.  Let  any 
romancer  who  is  in  want  of  a hero  peruse  the  second  volume, 
or  it  may  be  the  third,  of  the  “Annual  Register,”  where  the 
adventures  of  that  gallant  fellow  are  related.  He  was  a gentle- 
man, a genius,  and,  to  crown  all,  a smuggler.  He  lived  for 
some  time  in  Ireland,  and  in  England,  in  disguise  ; he  had  love- 
passages  and  romantic  adventures ; he  landed  a bodj^  of  his 
countrymen  on  these  shores,  and  died  in  the  third  volume,  after 
a battle  gallantly  fought  on  both  sides,  but  in  which  victory 
rested  with  the  British  arms.  What  can  a novelist  want  more?- 
William  III.  also  landed  here  ; and  as  for  the  rest,  “ M‘Skimin, 
the  accurate  and  laborious  historian  of  the  town,  informs  us 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


2G7 


that  the  founding  of  the  castle  is  lost  in  the  depths  of  antiquit}  .” 
It  is  pleasant  to  give  a little  historic  glance  at  a place  as  one 
passes  through.  The  above  facts  may  be  relied  on  as  coming 
from  Messrs.  Curry’s  excellent  new  Guide-book  ; with  the  ex- 
ception  of  the  history  of  Mons.  Tliurot,  wdiich  is  “ private 
information,”  drawn  3'ears  ago  from  the  scarce  work  previously 
mentioned.  By  the  wa}',  another  excellent  companion  to  the 
traveller  in  Ireland  is  the  collection  of  the  “ Irish  Penn}-  Maga- 
zine,” which  may  be  purchased  for  a guinea,  and  contains  a 
mass  of  information  regarding  the  customs  and  places  of  the 
countr3^  Willis’s  work  is  amusing,  as  everything  is,  written 
by  that  lively  author,  and  the  engravings  accompanjing  it  as 
unfaithful  as  any  ever  made. 

Meanwhile,  asking  pardon  for  this  double  digression,  which 
has  been  made  while  the  guard-coachman  is  delivering  his  mail- 
bags — while  the  landlady  stands  looking  on  in  the  sun,  her 
hands  folded  a little  below  the  waist — while  a compaii}^  of  tall 
burly  troops  from  the  castle  has  passed  by,  ‘■‘surrounded”  by 
a very  mean,  mealy- faced,  uneas3'-looking  little  subaltern  — 
while  the  poor  epileptic  idiot  of  the  town,  wallowing  and 
grinning  in  the  road,  and  snorting  out  supplications  for  a 
halfpenny,  has  tottered  awa}'  in  possession  of  the  coin  : — 
meanwhile,  fresh  horses  are  brought  out,  and  the  small  boy 
who  acts  behind  the  coach  makes  an  unequal  and  disagreeable 
tootooing  on  a horn  kept  to  warn  sleepy  carmen  and  celebrate 
triumphal  entries  into  and  exits  from  cities.  As  the  mist 
clears  up,  the  country  shows  round  about  wild  but  friendly  : at 
one  place  we  passed  a village  wdiere  a crowd  of  well-dressed 
people  were  collected  at  an  auction  of  farm-furniture,  and  many 
more  figures  might  be  seen  coming  over  the  fields  and  issuing 
from  the  mist.  The  owner  of  the  carts  and  machines  is  going 
to  emigrate  to  America.  Presently  we  come  to  the  demesne  of 
Red  Hall,  “through  which  is  a pretty  drive  of  upwmrds  of  a 
mile  in  length  : it  contains  a rocky  glen,  the  bed  of  a mountain 
stream  — which  is  perfectly  dry,  except  in  winter  — and  the 
woods  about  it  are  picturesque,  and  it  is  occasionally  the  resort 
of  summer-parties  of  pleasure.”  Nothing  can  be  more  just 
than  the  first  part  of  the  description,  and  there  is  ver}'  little 
doubt  that  the  latter  paragraph  is  equalA  faithful ; — with  which 
we  come  to  Larne,  a “ most  thriving  towm,”  the  same  authority 
says,  but  a most  dirty  and  narrow-streeted  and  ill-built  one. 
Some  of  the  houses  reminded  one  of  the  south.  A lienevolent 
fellow-passenger  said  that  the  window  was  “a  convanience.” 
And  here,  after  a drive  of  nineteen  miles  upon  a comfortable 


268 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


coach,  we  were  transferred  with  the  mail-bags  to  a comfortable 
car  that  makes  the  journey  to  Ball^^castle.  There  is  no  harm 
ill  sa3ung  that  there  was  a veiy  prett}'  smiling  buxom  3'oung 
lass  for  a travelling  companion  ; and  somehow,  to  a lonel}' 
person,  the  landscape  alwa3^s  looks  prettier  in  such  societ}-. 
The  “Antrim  coast- road,”  which  we  now,  after  a few  miles, 
begin  to  follow,  besides  being  one  of  the  most  noble  and  gallant 
works  of  art  that  is  to  be  seen  in  aii}^  countiy,  is  likewise  a 
route  highlj^  picturesque  and  romantic  ; the  sea  spreading  wide 
before  the  spectator’s  eyes  upon  one  side  of  the  route,  the  tall 
cliffs  of  limestone  rising  abruptly  above  him  on  the  other. 
There  are  in  the  map  of  Curiy’s  Guide-book  points  indicating 
castles  and  abbe^-  ruins  in  the  viciniG^  of  Glenarm  ; and  the 
little  place  looked  so  comfortable,  as  we  abruptty  came  upon 
it,  round  a rock,  that  I was  glad  to  have  an  excuse  for  staying, 
and  felt  an  extreme  curiosit}^  with  regard  to  the  abbe}"  and  the 
castle. 

The  abbey  onl}^  exists  in  the  unromantic  shape  of  a wall ; 
the  castle,  however,  far  from  being  a ruin,  is  an  antique  in  the 
most  complete  order — an  old  castle  repaired  so  as  to  look  like 
new,  and  increased  b}^  modern  wings,  towers,  gables,  and  ter- 
races, so  extremel}'  old  that  the  whole  forms  a grand  and  im- 
posing-looking baronial  edifice,  towering  above  the  little  town 
which  it  seems  to  protect,  and  with  which  it  is  connected  by 
a bridge  and  a severe-looking  armed  tower  and  gate.  In  the 
town  is  a town-house,  with  a campanile  in  the  Italian  taste, 
and  a school  or  chapel  opposite  in  the  earl^^  English ; so  that 
the  inhabitants  can  enjoy  a considerable  architectural  variety. 
A grave-looking  church,  with  a beautiful  steeple,  stands  amid 
some  trees  hard  b^^  a second  handsome  bridge  and  the  little 
qua}" ; and  here,  too,  was  perched  a poor  little  wandering  thea- 
tre (gallery  IJ.,  pit  2c?.),  and  proposing  that  night  to  play 
“ Bombastes  Furioso,  and  the  Comic  Bally  of  Glenarm  in  an 
Uproar.”  I heard  the  thumping  of  the  drum  in  the  evening  ; 
but,  as  at  Round  wood,  nobody  patronized  the  poor  players. 
At  nine  o’clock  there  was  not  a single  taper  lighted  under  theii- 
awning,  and  my  heart  (perhaps  it  is  too  susceptible)  bled  for 
Fusbos. 

The  severe  gate  of  the  castle  was  opened  by  a kind,  good- 
natured  old  porteress,  instead  of  a rough  gallowglass  with  a 
battle-axe  and  yellow  shirt  (more  fitting  guardian  of  so  stern 
a postern),  and  the  old  dame  insisted  upon  my  making  an  ap- 
plication to  see  the  grounds  of  the  castle,  which  request  was 
very  kindly  granted,  and  afforded  a delightful  half-hour’s  walk. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


269 


The  grounds  are  beautiful,  and  excellently  kept ; the  trees  in  , 
their  autumn  livery  of  red,  yellow,  and  brown,  except  some 
stout  ones  that  keep  to  their  green  summer  clothes,  and  the 
laurels  and  their  like,  wiio  war  pretty  much  the  same  dress 
all  the  year  round.  The  birds  were  singing  with  the  most 
astonishing  vehemence  in  the  dark  glistening  shrubberies ; 
but  the  oul}’  sound  in  the  walks  was  that  of  the  rakes  pulling 
together  the  falling  leaves.  There  was  of  these  walks  one  ‘ 
especiall}',  flanked  towards  the  river  by  a turreted  wall  covered 
witli  ivy,  and  having  on  the  one  side  a row  of  lime-trees  tliat 
had  turned  quite  yellow,  while  opposite  them  was  a green  slope, 
and  a quaint  terrace-stair,  and  a long  range  of  fantastic  gables, 
towers,  and  chimneys;  — there  was,  I say,  one  of  these  walks 
which  Mr.  Cattermole  would  hit  off  with  a few  strokes  of  his 
gallant  pencil,  and  which  I could  fanc}^  to  be  frequented  by 
some  of  those  long-trained,  tender,  gentle-looking  young  beau- 
ties whom  Mr.  Stone  loves  to  design.  Here  they  come,  talking 
of  love  in  a tone  that  is  between  a sigh  and  a whisper,  and 
gliding  in  rustling  shot  silks  over  tlie  fallen  leaves. 

There  seemed  to  be  a good  deal  of  stir  in  the  little  port, 
where,  sa3’s  the  Guide-book,  a couple  of  hundred  vessels  take 
in  cargoes  annually  of  the  produce  of  the  district.  Stone  and 
lime  are  the  chief  articles  exported,  of  which  the  cliffs  for  miles 
give  an  unfailing  supply  ; and,  as  one  travels  the  mountains  at 
night,  the  kilns  maj^  be  seen  lighted  up  in  the  lonelj"  places, 
and  flaring  red  in  the  darkness. 

If  the  road  from  Larne  to  Gleuarm  is  beautiful,  the  coast 
route  from  the  latter  place  to  Cusheudall  is  still  more  so ; and, 
except  peerless  Westport,  I have  seen  nothing  in  Ireland  so 
picturesque  as  this  noble  line  of  coast  scener}^  The  new  road, 
luckih',  is  not  yet  completed,  and  the  lover  of  natural  beauties 
had  better  hasten  to  the  spot  in  time,  ere,  b}'  flattening  and  im- 
proving the  road,  and  leading  it  along  the  sea-shore,  half  the 
magnificent  prospects  are  shut  out,  now  visible  from  along  the 
mountainous  old  road  ; which,  according  to  the  good  old  fash- 
ion, gallanUy  takes  all  the  hills  in  its  course,  disdaining  to  turn 
diem.  At  three  miles’  distance,  near  the  village  of  Cairlough, 
Glenarm  looks  more  beautiful  than  when  3'ou  are  close  upon  it ; 
and,  as  the  car  travels  on  to  the  stupendous  Garron  Head,  the 
traveller,  looking  back,  has  a view  of  the  whole  line  of  coast 
southward  as  far  as  Isle  Magee,  with  its  bays  and  white  vil- 
lages, and  tall  precipitous  cliffs,  green,  white,  and  gra3^  Ifyes 
left,  you  may  look  with  wonder  at  the  mountiuns  rising  above, 
or  presentlj’  at  the  prett3-  park  and  grounds  of  Drumnasole. 


270 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Here,  near  the  woods  of  Nappan,  which  are  dressed  in  ten 
thousand  colors  — ash-leaves  turned  yellow,  nut-ti’ees  red, 
birch-leaves  brown,  lirae-leaves  speckled  over  with  black  spots 
(marks  of  a disease  which  they  will  never  get  over)  — stands 
a school-house  that  looks  like  a French  chateau,  having  proba- 
bl}"  been  a villa  in  former  days,  and  discharges  as  we  pass  a 
duster  of  fair-haired  children,  that  begin  running  madly  down 
the  hill,  their  fair  hair  streaming  behind  them.  Down  the  hill 
goes  the  car,  madly  too,  and  you  wonder  and  bless  your  stars 
that  the  horse  does  not  fall,  or  crush  the  children  that  are  run- 
ning before,  or  3^011  that  are  sitting  behind.  Eveiy  now  and 
tlien^  at  a trip  of  the  horse,  a disguised  lad3  ’s-maid,  with  a 
canaiy-bird  in  her  lap  and  a vast  anxiet3’  about  her  best  bonnet 
in  the  band-box,  begins  to  scream  : at  which  the  car-bo3"  grins, 
and  rattles  down  the  hill  01113"  the  quicker.  The  road,  which 
almost  alwa3's  skirts  the  hillside,  has  been  torn  sheer  through 
the  rock  here  and  there  : an  immense  work  of  levelling,  shovel- 
ling, picking,  blasting,  filling,  is  going  on  along  the  whole  line. 
As  I was  looking  up  a vast  cliff,  decorated  with  patches  of 
green  here  and  there  at  its  summit,  and  at  its  base,  where  the 
sea  had  beaten  until  now,  with  long,  thin,  waving  grass,  that 
1 told  a grocer,  m3"  neighbor,  was  like  mermaid’s  hair  (though 
he  did  not  in  the  least  coincide  in  the  simile)  — as  I was  look- 
ing up  the  hill,  admiring  two  goats  that  were  browsing  on  a 
little  patch  of  green,  and  two  sheep  perched  yet  higher  (I  had 
never  seen  such  agility  in  mutton)  — as,  I say  once  more,  I was 
looking  at  these  phenomena,  the  grocer  nudges  me  and  sa3"s, 
“ Look  on  to  this  side  — thaf s Scotland  yond^  If  ever  this  book 
reaches  a second  edition,  a sonnet  shall  be  inserted  in  this 
place,  describing  the  author’s  feelings  on  ms  first  view"  or 
Scotland.  Meanwhile,  the  Scotch  mountains  remain  undis* 
tiirbed,  looking  blue  and  solemn,  far  away  in  the  placid  sea. 

Rounding  Garron  Head,  we  come  upon  the  inlet  which  is 
called  Red  Bay,  the  shores  and  sides  of  which  are  of  red  cla3^ 
iliat  has  taken  the  place  of  limestone,  and  towards  which,  be- 
tween two  noble  ranges  of  mountains,  stretches  a long  green 
plain,  forming,  together  with  the  hills  that  protect  it  and  the 
sea  that  washes  it,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  landscapes  of  this 
most  beautiful  countiy.  A fair  writer,  whom  the  Guide-book 
quotes,  breaks  out  into  strains  of  admiration  in  speaking  of 
this  district;  calls  it  “Switzerland  in  miniature,”  celebrates 
its  mountains  of  Glenariff  and  Lurgethan,  and  lauds,  in  terms 
of  equal  admiration,  the  rivers,  waterfalls,  and  other  natural 
beauties  that  lie  wuthiii  the  glen. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


271 


The  writer’s  enthusiasm  regarding  this  tract  of  countiy  is 
quite  warranted,  nor  can  an}'  praise  in  admiration  of  it  be  too 
high  ; but  alas ! in  calling  a place  “ Switzerland  in  miniature,” 
do  we  describe  it?  In  joining  together  cataracts,  valley's,  rush- 
ing streams,  and  blue  mountains,  with  all  the  emphasis  and 
picturesqueness  of  which  type  is  capable,  we  cannot  get  near 
to  a coiy  of  Nature’s  sublime  countenance  ; and  the  writer 
can’t  hope  to  describe  such  grand  sights  so  as  to  make  them 
visible  to  the  fireside  reader,  but  can  only,  to  the  best  of  his 
taste  and  experience,  warn  the  future  traveller  where  he  ma}" 
look  out  for  objects  to  admire.  1 think  this  sentiment  has 
been  repeated  a score  of  times  in  this  journal ; but  it  comes 
upon  one  at  every  new  display  of  beauty  and  magnificence, 
such  as  here  the  Almighty  iu  his  bounty  has  set  before  us  ; 
and  every  such  scene  seems  to  warn  one,  that  it  is  not  made 
to  talk  about  too  mueh,  but  to  think  of  and  love,  and  be  grate- 
ful for. 

Rounding  this  beautiful  ba}'  and  valley,  we  passed  b}'  some 
caves  that  penetrate  deep  into  the  red  rock,  and  are  inhabited 
— one  b}'  a blacksmith,  whose  forge  was  blazing  in  the  dark  ; 
one  by  cattle  ; and  one  by  an  old  woman  that  has  sold  whiskey 
here  for  timeout  of  mind.  The  road  then  passes  under' an  arch 
cut  in  the  rock  by  the  same  spirited  individual  who  has  cleared 
away  many  of  the  difficulties  in  the  route  to  Glenarm,  and  be- 
side a conical  hill,  where  for  some  time  previous  have  been  visi- 
])le  the  ruins  of  the  “ ancient  ould  castle  ” of  Red  Ba}'.  At  a 
distance,  it  looks  very  grand  upon  its  height ; but  on  coming 
close  it  has  dwindled  down  to  a mere  wall,  and  not  a high  one. 
Hence  quick!}'  we  reached  Cushendall,  w'here  the  grocer’s  fam- 
ily are  on  the  look-out  for  him  : the  driver  begins  to  blow  his 
little  bugle,  and  the  disguised  lady’s-maid  begins  to  smooth 
her  bonnet  and  hair. 

At  this  place  a good  dinner  of  fresh  whiting,  broiled  bacon, 
and  small  beer  w'as  served  up  to  me  for  the  sum  of  eightpence, 
while  the  lady’s-maid  in  question  took  her  tea.  “ This  town  is 
full  of  Papists,”  said  her  ladyship,  with  an  extremely  genteel 
air ; and,  either  in  consequence  of  this,  or  because  she  ate  up 
one  of  the  fish,  which  she  had  clearly  no  right  to,  a disagree- 
ment arose  between  us,  and  we  did  not  exchange  another  word 
for  the  rest  of  the  journey.  The  road  led  us  for  fourteen  miles 
by  wild  mountains,  and  across  a fine  aqueduct  to  Ballycastle  ; 
but  it  was  dark  as  we  left  Cushendail,  and  it  was  difficult  to 
see  more  in  the  gray  evening  but  that  the  country  was  savage 
and  lonely,  except  where  the  kilns  were  lighted  up  here  and 


272 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


there  in  the  hills,  and  a shining  river  might  be  seen  winding  in 
the  dark  ravines.  Not  far  from  BalNcastle  lies  a little  oLl 
ruin,  ealled  the  Abbe}^  of  Bbnamargy : by  it  the  Margy  river 
runs  into  the  sea,  upon  which  you  come  suddenly  ; and  on  the 
shore  are  some  tall  buildings  and  factories,  that  looked  as  well 
in  the  moonlight  as  if  they  had  not  been  in  ruins ; and  hence  a 
line  avenue  of  limes  leads  to  Ball3X*astle.  The}"  must  lia\  e 
been  planted  at  the  time  recorded  in  the  Guide-book,  when  a 
mine  was  discovered  near  the  town,  and  the  works  and  waic- 
houses  on  the  quay  erected.  At  present^  the  place  has  little 
trade,  and  half  a dozen  carts  with  apples,  potatoes,  dried  fish, 
and  turf,  seem  to  contain  the  commerce  of  the  market. 

The  picturesque  sort  of  vehicle  designed  on  the  next  page*  is 
said  to  be  going  much  out  of  fashion  in  the  country,  the  solid 
wheels  giving  place  to  those  common  to  the  rest  of  Europe.  A 
fine  and  edifying  conversation  took  place  between  the  designer 
and  the  owner  of  the  vehicle.  “ Stand  still  for  a minute,  } ou 
and  the  car,  and  I will  give  you  twopence  ! ” “ What  do  you 

want  to  do  with  it?”  says  the  latter.  “To  draw  it.”  “To 
draw  it!”  says  he,  with  a wild  look  of  surprise.  “And  is  it 
yoiill  draw  it?  ” “I  mean  1 want  to  take  a picture  of  it : you 
know  what  a picture  is!”  “No,  1 don’t.”  “Here’s  one,” 
says  I,  showing  him  a book.  “Oh,  faith,  sir,”  says  the  car- 
man, drawing  back  i*ather  alarmed,  “ I’m  no  scholar!”  And 
he  concluded  by  saying,  “ Will  you  buy  the  turf^  or  will  you  not"}  ” 
By  which  straightforward  question  he  showed  himself  to  be  a real 
practical  man  of  sense ; and,  as  he  got  an  unsatisfactory  repl}' 
to  this  query,  he  forthwith  gave  a lash  to  his  pony  and  declined 
to  wait  a minute  longer.  As  for  the  twopence,  he  certainly 
accepted  that  handsome  sum,  and  put  it  into  his  pocket,  but 
with  an  air  of  extreme  wonder  at  the  transaction,  and  of  con- 
tempt for  the  giver  ; which  very  likely  was  perfectly  justifiable. 
I have  seen  men  despised  in  genteel  companies  with  not  half 
so  good  a cause. 

In  respect  to  the  fine  arts,  I am  bound  to  say  that  the  people 
in  the  South  and  West  showed  much  more  curiosity  and  interest 
with  regard  to  a sketch  and  its  progress  than  has  been  shown 
by  the  budauds  of  the  North  ; the  former  looking  on  by  dozens 
and  exclaiming,  “That’s  Frank  Mahony’s  house  !”  or  “Look 
at  Biddy  Mullins  and  the  child!”  or  “He’s  taking  off  the 
chimney  now ! ” as  the  case  may  be  ; whereas,  sketching  in 
the  North,  I have  collected  no  such  spectators,  the  people  not 
taking  the  slightest  notice  of  the  transaction. 

^ Tins  refers  to  an  illustrated  edition  of  the  work. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


273 


The  little  town  of  Ball_ycastle  does  not  contain  mncb  to 
occupy  the  traveller ; behind  the  church  stands  a ruined  old 
mansion  with  round  turrets,  that  must  have  been  a stately 
tower  in  former  days.  The  town  is  more  modern,  but  almost 
as  dismal  as  the  tower.  A little  street  behind  it  slides  off  into 
a potato-field  — the  peaceful  barrier  of  the  place  ; and  hence  I 
could  see  the  tall  rock  of  Bengore,  with  the  sea  be3'ond  it,  and 
a pleasing  landscape  stretching  towards  it. 

Dr.  Hamilton’s  elegant  and  learned  book  has  an  awful 
picture  of  yonder  head  of  Bengore  ; and  hard  Im  it  the  Guide- 
book sa}'s  is  a coal-mine,  where  Mr.  Barrow  found  a globular 
stone  hammer,  which,  he  infers,  was  used  in  the  coal-mine 
before  weapons  of  iron  were  invented.  The  former  writer 
insinuates  that  the  mine  must  have  been  worked  more  than  a 
thousand  }’ears  ago,  “ before  the  turbulent  chaos  of  events  that 
succeeded  the  eighth  century.”  Shall  I go  and  see  a coal-mine 
that  ma}"  have  been  worked  a thousand  j^ears  since?  WI13"  go 
see  it?  says  idleness.  To  be  able  to  say  that  I have  seen  it. 
Sheridan’s  adtdce  to  his  son  here  came  into  my  mind  ; * and  I 
shall  reserve  a description  of -the  mine,  and  an  antiquarian  dis- 
sertation regarding  it,  for  publication  elsewhere. 

Ballycastle  must  not  be  left  without  recording  the  fact  that 
one  of  the  snuggest  inns  in  the  country  is  kept  by  the  post- 
master there  ; who  has  also  a stable  full  of  good  horses  for 
travellers  who  take  his  little  inn  on  the  way  to  the  Giant’s 
Causeway. 

The  road  to  the  Cause wa3^  is  bleak,  wild,  and  hilly.  The 
cabins  along  the  road  are  scarcely  better  than  those  of  Keriy, 
the  inmates  as  ragged,  and  more  fierce  and  dark-looking.  I 
never  was  so  pestered  by  juvenile  beggars  as  in  the  dismal 
village  of  Ballintoy.  A crowd  of  them  rushed  after  the  car, 
calling  for  moneys  in  a fierce  manner,  as  if  it  was  their  right : 
dogs  as  fierce  as  the  children  came  yelling  after  the  vehicle  ; 
and  the  faces  w-hich  scowled  out  of  the  black  cabins  were  not  a 
whit  more  good-humored.  We  passed  by  one  or  t\vo  more 
clumps  of  cabins,  with  their  turf  and  corn-stacks  lying  together 
at  the  foot  of  the  hills  ; placed  there  for  the  convenience  of  the 
children,  doubtless,  who  can  thus  accompany  the  car  either 
way,  and  shriek  out  their  Bonny  gantleman,  gi’e  us  a ha’p’nvd' 

A couple  of  churches,  one  with  a pair  of  its  pinnacles  blown 
off,  stood  in  the  dismal  open  country,  and  a gentleman’s  house 
here  and  there:  there  were  no  trees  about  them,  but  a brown 

^ I want  to  go  into  a coal-mine,”  says  Tom  Sheridan,  “ in  order  to  say 
I have  been  there.”  “ Well,  then,  say  so,”  replied  the  admirable  father. 

18 


272 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


there  in  the  hills,  and  a shining  river  might  be  seen  winding  in 
the  dark  ravines.  Not  far  from  BalhT;astle  lies  a little  old 
ruin,  ealled  the  Abbey  of  Bbnamargy : by  it  the  Margy  river 
runs  into  the  sea,  upon  wliieli  you  come  suddenl}' ; and  on  the 
sliorc  are  some  tall  buildings  and  factories,  that  looked  as  well 
in  the  moonlight  as  if  they  had  not  been  in  ruins : and  hence  a 
line  avenue  of  limes  leads  to  Ballyeastle.  The}"  must  ha\  e 
been  planted  at  the  time  recorded  in  the  Guide-book,  when  a 
mine  was  discovered  near  the  town,  and  the  works  and  ware- 
houses on  the  quay  erected.  At  present^  the  place  has  little 
trade,  and  half  a dozen  carts  with  apples,  potatoes,  dried  fish, 
and  turf,  seem  to  contain  the  commerce  of  the  market. 

The  picturesque  sort  of  vehicle  designed  on  the  next  page*  is 
said  to  be  going  much  out  of  fashion  in  the  country,  the  solid 
wheels  giving  place  to  those  common  to  the  rest  of  Europe.  A 
fine  and  edifying  conversation  took  place  between  the  designer 
and  the  owner  of  the  vehicle.  “ Stand  still  for  a minute,  } ou 
and  the  car,  and  I will  give  }"ou  twopence  ! ” “ What  do  you 

want  to  do  with  it?”  sa}'s  the  latter.  “To  draw  it.”  “To 
draw  it!”  says  he,  with  a wild  look  of  surprise.  “And  is  it 
you'll  draw  it?  ” “I  mean  1 want  to  take  a picture  of  it : you 
know  what  a picture  is!”  “No,  I don’t.”  “Here’s  one,” 
says  I,  showing  him  a book.  “Oh,  faith,  sir,”  says  the  car- 
man, drawing  back  rather  alarmed,  “ I’m  no  scholar!”  And 
he  concluded  by  sajdng,  “ Will  you  buy  the  turf^  or  will  you  noi"^  ” 
By  which  straightforward  question  he  showed  himself  to  be  a real 
practical  man  of  sense  ; and,  as  he  got  an  unsatisfactory  repl}' 
to  this  queiy,  he  forthwith  gave  a lash  to  his  poii}"  and  declined 
to  wait  a minute  longer.  As  for  the  twopence,  he  certainly 
accepted  that  handsome  sum,  and  put  it  into  his  pocket,  but 
with  an  air  of  extreme  wonder  at  the  transaction,  and  of  con- 
tempt for  the  giver;  which  veiy  likely  was  perfectly  justifiable. 
I have  seen  men  despised  in  genteel  companies  with  not  half 
so  good  a cause. 

In  respect  to  the  fine  arts,  I am  bound  to  say  that  the  people 
in  the  South  and  West  showed  much  more  curiosity  and  interest 
with  regard  to  a sketch  and  its  progress  than  has  been  shown 
by  the  badauds  of  the  North  ; the  former  looking  on  b}"  dozens 
and  exclaiming,  “ That’s  Frank  Mahony’s  house  ! ” or  “ Look 
at  Biddy  Mullins  and  the  child!”  or  “He’s  taking  off  the 
chimney  now ! ” as  the  case  ma}^  be ; whereas,  sketching  in 
the  North,  I have  collected  no  such  spectators,  the  people  not 
taking  the  slightest  notice  of  the  transaction. 

* This  refers  to  an  illustrated  edition  of  the  work. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


273 


The  little  town  of  Ball3’castle  does  not  contain  much  to 
occupy  the  traveller ; behind  the  church  stands  a ruined  old 
mansion  with  round  turrets,  that  must  have  been  a statelv 
tow'er  in  former  days.  The  town  is  more  modern,  but  almost 
as  dismal  as  the  tower.  A little  street  behind  it  slides  off  into 
a potato-field  — the  peaceful  barrier  of  the  place  ; and  hence  I 
could  see  the  tall  rock  of  Bengore,  with  the  sea  be^'ond  it,  and 
a pleasing  landscape  stretching  towards  it. 

Dr.  Hamilton’s  elegant  and  learned  book  has  an  awfful 
picture  of  yonder  head  of  Bengore  ; and  hard  b\^  it  the  Guide- 
book sa^'s  is  a coal-mine,  where  Mr.  Barrow  found  a globular 
stone  hammer,  which,  he  infers,  was  used  in  the  coal-mine 
before  weapons  of  iron  were  invented.  The  former  writer 
insinuates  that  the  mine  must  have  been  worked  more  than  a 
thousand  years  ago,  “ before  the  turbulent  chaos  of  events  thac 
succeeded  the  eighth  century.”  Shall  I go  and  see  a coal-mine 
that  may  have  been  worked  a thousand  3"ears  since?  Wh}^  go 
see  it?  says  idleness.  To  be  able  to  sa}'  that  I have  seen  it. 
Sheridan’s  advice  to  his  son  here  came  into  my  mind  ; * and  I 
shall  reserve  a description  of -the  mine,  and  an  antiquarian  dis- 
sertation regarding  it,  for  publication  elsewhere. 

Balh’castle  must  not  be  left  without  recording  the  fact  that 
one  of  the  snuggest  inns  in  the  country  is  kept  by  the  post- 
master there  ; who  has  also  a stable  full  of  good  horses  for 
travellers  who  take  his  little  inn  on  the  wa3"  to  the  Giant’s 
Causewa}^ 

The  road  to  the  Cause wa}'  is  bleak,  wild,  and  hill3^  The 
cabins  along  the  road  are  scarcely  better  than  those  of  Keriy, 
the  inmates  as  ragged,  and  more  fierce  and  dark-looking.  I 
never  was  so  pestered  by  juvenile  beggars  as  in  the  dismal 
village  of  Ballinto^v  A crowd  of  them  rushed  after  the  car, 
calling  for  money  in  a fierce  manner,  as  if  it  was  their  right  : 
dogs  as  fierce  as  the  children  came  veiling  after  the  vehicle  ; 
and  the  faces  which  scowled  out  of  the  I)lack  cabins  were  not  a 
whit  more  good-humored.  We  passed  by  one  or  two  more 
clumps  of  cabins,  with  their  turf  and  corn-stacks  h’ing  together 
at  the  foot  of  the  hills  ; placed  there  for  the  convenience  of  the 
children,  doubtless,  who  can  thus  accompany  the  car  either 
wajq  and  shriek  out  their  “ Bonny  gantleman,  gi’e  us  a ha’p’nvd' 
A couple  of  churches,  one  with  a pair  of  its  pinnacles  blowui 
off,  stood  in  the  dismal  open  country,  and  a gentleman’s  house 
here  and  there  : there  were  no  trees  about  them,  but  a brown 

^ “ I want  to  go  into  a coal-mine,”  says  Tom  Sheridan,  “ in  order  to  say 
I have  been  there.”  “ Well,  then,  say  so,”  replied  the  admirable  father. 

1.8 


27G 


TIIP]  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


huiKlred  feet  imcler  ground,  and  the  boats  goes  into  it  easy  of  a 
calm  daj'.” 

“Is  it  a fine  da}^  or  a rough  one  now?  ’’  said  I ; the  inter- 
nal disturbance  going  on  with  more  severit}^  than  ever. 

“ It’s  betwixt  and  between  ; or,  I ma}’  sa}",  neither  one  nor 
the  other.  Sit  up,  sir.  Look  at  the  entrance  of  the  cave. 
Don’t  be  afraid,  sir : never  has  an  accident  happened  in  any  of 
these  boats,  and  the  most  delicate  ladies  has  rode  in  them  on 
rougher  days  than  tliis.  Now,  boys,  pull  to  the  big  cave. 
That,  sir,  is  six  hundred  and  sixty  3'ards  in  length,  though 
some  sa}^  it  goes  for  miles  inland,  where  the  people  sleeping  in 
their  houses  hear  the  waters  roaring  under  them.” 

The  water  was  tossing  and  tumbling  into  the  mouth  of  the 
little  cave.  I looked,  — for  the  guide  would  not  let  me  alone 
till  I did,  — and  saw  what  might  be  expected  : a black  hole  of 
some  forty  feet  higli,  into  which  it  was  no  more  possible  to  see 
than  into  a millstone.  “For  heaven’s  sake,  sir,”  saj-s  I,  “ if 
you’ve  no  particular  wish  to  see  the  mouth  of  the  big  cave,  put 
about  and  let  us  see  the  Causewa}’  and  get  ashore.”  This  was 
done,  the  guide  meanwhile  telling  some  story  of  a sliip  of  the 
Spanish  Armada  having  fired  her  guns  at  two  peaks  of  rock, 
then  visible,  which  the  crew  mistook  for  chimne3'-pots  — what 
benighted  fools  these  Spanish  Armadilloes  must  have  been : it 
is  easier  to  see  a rock  than  a chimney-pot ; it  is  eas}'  to  know 
that  chimne3'-pots  do  not  grow  on  rocks.  — “ But  where,  ll 
you  please,  is  the  Causewa3'?” 

“ That’s  the  Causeway  before  3’ou,”  sa3^s  the  guide. 

“ Which?” 

“That  pier  which  3^011  see  jutting  out  into  the  bay,  right 
a- head.” 

“ Mon  Dieu  ! and  have  I travelled  a hundred  and  fift3^  miles 
to  see  thatV' 

I declare,  upon  m3"  conscience,  the  barge  moored  at  Hun- 
gerford  market  is  a more  majestic  object,  and  seems  to  occup3" 
as  much  space.  As  for  telling  a man  that  the  Causewa3"  is 
merel3"  a part  of  the  sight ; that  he  is  there  for  the  purpose  of 
examining  the  surrounding  scenery  ; that  if  he  looks  to  the 
westward  he  will  see  Portrush  and  Donegal  Elead  before  him  ; 
that  the  cliffs  immediatcl3’  in  his  front  arc  green  in  some 
l)laccs,  black  in  others,  interspersed  with  blotches  of  brown  and 
streaks  of  verdure  ; — what  is  all  this  to  a lonel3"  individual 
lying  sick  in  a boat,  between  two  immense  waves  that  011I3" 
give  him  momentary  glimpses  of  the  land  in  question,  to  show 
that  it  i'^  friglitful]\'  ’mar,  and  3X't  3"ou  are  an  hour  from  it? 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


277 


TIk^3'  won’t  let  3’on  go  awn^’  — tliat  enrsecl  guide  ivill  tell  onl 
ills  stock  of  legends  and  stories.  The  boatmen  insist  upon 
3 <)hr  looking  at  boxes  of  si)eciinens,”  which  you  must  bu3' 
uf  tiiem  ; the3'  laugh  as  you  grow  paler  and  paler ; the3"  offiu* 
you  more  and  more  “ specimens  ; ” even  the  dirt3^  lad  who  pulk 
number  three,  and  is  not  allowed  l)V  his  comrades  to  speak, 
puts  in  his  oar,  and  hands  3’ou  over  a piece  of  Irish  diamond 
(it  looks  like  half-sucked  alicom[)ayne) . and  scorns  you.  “•  llur- 
ra3',  lads,  now  for  it,  give  way  ! ” how  the  oars  do  hurtle  in  the 
rowlocks,  as  the  boat  goes  up  an  acpieous  mountain,  and  then 
down  into  one  of  those  cursed  maritime  valleys  where  there  is 
no  rest  as  on  shore  ! 

At  last,  after  they  had  [)ulled  me  enough  about,  and  sold  me 
all  the  boxes  of  specimens,  I was  permitted  to  land  at  the  spot 
whence  we  set  out,  and  whence,  though  we  had  been  rowing 
for  an  hour,  we  had  never  been  above  tive  hundred  yards  dis- 
tant. Let  all  Cockneys  take  warning  from  this  ; let  tlie  solitaiy 
one  caught  issuing  from  the  back  door  of  the  hotel,  shout  at 
once  to  the  boatmen  to  be  gone  — that  he  will  have  none  of 
them.  Let  him,  at  any  rate,  go  first  down  to  the  water  to  de- 
termine whether  it  be  smooth  enough  to  allow  him  to  take  aiy' 
decent  pleasure  1)3'’  riding  on  its  surface.  For  after  all,  it  must 
be  remembered  that  it  is  pleasure  we  come  for  — that  we  are 
.not  obliged  to  take  those  boats.  — Well,  well ! I paid  ten  shil- 
lings for  mine,  and  ten  minutes  before  would  cheerlully  have 
paid  five  pounds  to  be  allowed  to  quit  it : it  was  no  hard  bar- 
gain after  all.  As  for  the  boxes  of  spar  and  specimens,  I at 
once,  being  on  terra  firma,  broke  my  promise,  and  said  I 

would  see  them  all first.  It  is  wrong  to  swear,  I know; 

but  sometimes  it  relieves  one  so  much  ! 

The  first  act  on  shore  Avas  to  make  a sacrifice  to  Sanctissima 
Tellus  ; oflering  up  to  her  a neat  and  becoming  Taglioni  coat, 
bought  for  a guinea  in  CoA^ent  Garden  onlv  three  months  back. 
I spraAvled  on  my  back  on  the  smoothest  of  rocks  that  is,  and 
tore  the  elboAvs  to  pieces  : the  guide  iiicked  me  up  ; the  boatmen 
did  not  stir,  for  they  had  had  their  Avill  of  me  ; the  guide  alone 
picked  me  up,  I sa3',  and  bade  me  folio av  him.  We  went  across 
a boggy  ground  in  one  of  the  little  bays,  round  which  rise  the 
green  walls  of  the  cliff,  terminated  on  either  side  b3^  a black 
crag,  and  the  line  of  the  shore  wmshed  by  the  poluphloisboiotic, 
nay,  the  poluphloisboiotatotic  sea.  Tavo  beggars  stepped  over 
the  bog  after  us  howling  for  money,  and  each  holding  up  a 
cursed  box  of  specimens.  No  oaths,  threats,  entreaties,  would 
drive  these  vermin  aAvay  ; for  some  time  the  Avliole  scene  had 


278 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


been  spoilt  by  the  incessant  and  abominable  jargon  of  them, 
the  boatmen,  and  the  guides.  I was  obliged  to  give  them 
money  to  be  left  in  quiet,  and  if,  as  no  doubt  will  be  the  case, 
the  Giant’s  Causewa^^  shall  be  a still  greater  resort  of  travel- 
lers than  ever,  the  county  must  put  policemen  on  the  rocks  to 
keep  the  beggars  away,  or  fling  them  in  the  water  when  thej^ 
appear. 

And  now,  by  force  of  mone}^  having  got  rid  of  the  sea  and 
land  beggars,  3^011  are  at  libert}^  to  examine  at  3’our  leisure  the 
wonders  of  the  place.  There  is  not  the  least  need  for  a guide 
to  attend  the  stranger,  unless  the  latter  have  a mind  to  listen 
to  a parcel  of  legends,  which  ma}^  be  well  from  the  mouth  of  a 
wild  simple  peasant  who  believes  in  his  tales,  but  are  odious 
from  a dullard  who  narrates  them  at  the  rate  of  sixpence  a lie. 
Fee  him  and  the  other  beggars,  and  at  last  3'ou  are  left  tranquil 
to  look  at  the  strange  scene  with  3^our  own  eyes,  and  enjo}^ 
your  own  thoughts  at  leisure. 

That  is,  if  the  thoughts  awakened  b}"  such  a scene  ma}’  be 
called  enjo3unent ; but  for  me,  I confess,  the}-  are  too  near  akin 
to  fear  to  be  pleasant ; and  I don’t  know  that  I would  desire  to 
change  that  sensation  of  awe  and  terror  which  the  hour’s  walk 
occasioned,  for  a greater  familiarity  with  this  wild,  sad,  lonel}" 
place.  The  solitude  is  awful.  I can’t  understand  how  those 
chattering  guides  dare  to  lift  up  their  voices  here,  and  ciy  for 
mone}’. 

It  looks  like  the  beginning  of  the  world,  somehow : the  sea 
looks  older  than  in  other  places,  the  hills  and  rocks  strange,  and 
formed  differently  from  other  rojks  and  hills  — as  those  vast 
dubious  monsters  were  formed  who  possessed  the  earth  before 
man.  The  hill-tops  are  shattered  into  a thousand  cragged  fan- 
tastical shapes  ; the  water  comes  swelling  into  scores  of  little 
strange  creeks,  or  goes  off  with  a leap,  roaring  into  those  mys- 
terious caves  3’onder,  wdiich  penetrate  who  knows  how  far  into 
our  common  world?  The  savage  rock-sides  are  painted  of  a 
hundred  colors.  Does  the  sun  ever  shine  here?  When  the 
world  was  moulded  and  fashioned  out  of  formless  chaos,  this 
must  have  been  the  Ifit  over  — a remnant  of  chaos!  Think  of 
that!  — it  is  a tailor’s  simile.  Well,  I am  a Cockney:  I wish 
I were  in  Pall  Mall ! Yonder  is  a kelp-burner  : a lurid  smoke 
from  his  burning  kelp  rises  up  to  the  leaden  sky,  and  he  looks 
as  naked  and  fierce  as  Cain.  Bubbling  up  out  of  the  rocks  at 
the  very  brim  of  the  sea  rises  a little  crystal  spring  : how  comes 
it  there?  and  there  is  an  old  gray  hag  beside,  who  has  been 
there  for  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years,  and  there  sits  and 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK, 


279 


sells  whiskey  at  the  extremity  of  creation  ! How  do  you  dare 
to  sell  whiskey  there,  old  woman?  Did  you  serve  old  Saturn 
with  a glass  when  he  laj'  along  the  Causeway  here  ? In  reply, 
she  says,  she  has  no  change  for  a shilling : she  never  has  ; but 
her  whiskey  is  good. 

This  is  not  a description  of  the  Giant’s  Causewa}^  (as  some 
clever  critic  will  remark),  but  of  a Ijondoner  there,  who  is  b}^ 
no  means  so  interesting  an  object  as  the  natural  curiosit}^  in 
question.  That  single  hint  is  suMicient ; I have  not  a word 
more  to  sa3\  “ If,”  says  he,  *‘3^011  cannot  describe  the  scene 
lying  before  us  — if  you  cannot  state  from  your  personal  ob- 
servation that  the  number  of  basaltic  pillars  composing  the 
Causeway  has  been  computed  at  about  Ibrty  thousand,  which 
vaiy  in  diameter,  their  surfiice  presenting  the  appearance  of  a 
tessellated  pavement  of  polygonal  stones  — that  each  pillar  is 
formed  of  several  distinct  joints,  the  convex  end  of  the  one 
being  accurately  fitted  in  the  concave  of  the  next,  and  the 
length  of  the  joints  varying  from  five  feet  to  four  inches  — that 
although  the  pillars  are  polygonal,  there  is  but  one  of  three 
sides  in  the  whole  fort}’  thousand  (think  of  that!),  but  three  of 
nine  sides,  and  that  it  may  be  safel}’  computed  that  ninet}^-nine 
out  of  one  hundred  pillars  have  either  five,  six,  or  seven  sides ; 
if  you  cannot  state  something  useful,  you  had  much  better,  sir, 
retire  and  get  your  dinner.” 

Never  was  summons  more  gladl}’  obeyed.  The  dinner  must 
be  read}'  by  this  time  ; so,  remain  you,  and  look  on  at  the  awful 
scene,  and  copy  it  down  in  words  if  you  can.  If  at  the  end  of 
the  trial  you  are  dissatisfied  with  your  skill  as  a painter,  and 
lind  that  the  biggest  of  your  words  cannot  render  the  hues 
and  vastness  of  that  tremendous  swelling  sea  — of  those  lean 
solitary  crags  standing  rigid  along  the  shore,  where  they  have 
1)cen  watching  the  ocean  ever  since  it  was  made  — of  those  gray 
towers  of  Dunluce  standing  upon  a leaden  rock,  and  looking  as 
if  some  old,  old  princess,  of  old,  old  fairy  times,  were  dragon- 
guarded  within  — of  yon  flat  stretches  of  sand  where  the  Scotch 
and  Irish  mermaids  hold  conference  — come  away  too,  and 
prate  no  more  about  the  scene  ! There  is  that  in  nature,  dear 
Jenkins,  which  passes  even  our  powers.  We  can  feel  the  beauty 
of  a magnificent  landscape,  perhaps  : but  we  can  describe  a 
leg  of  mutton  and  turnips  better.  Come,  then,  this  scene  is  for 
our  betters  to  depict.  If  Mr.  Tennyson  were  to  come  hither  for 
a month,  and  brood  over  the  place,  he  might,  in  some  of  those 
lofty  heroic  lines  which  the  author  of  the  “ Morte  d’ Arthur” 
knows  how  to  pile  up,  convey  to  the  reader  a sense  of  this  gigan- 


280 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


tic  desolate  scene.  What!  you,  too,  are  a poet?  Well,  then, 
Jenkins,  stay  ! but  believe  me,  you  had  best  take  my  advice, 
and  come  off. 

The  worth}'  landlad}’  made  her  appearance  with  the  politest 
of  bows  and  an  apolog}^,  — for  what  does  the  reader  think  a 
lady  should  apologize  in  tlie  most  lonely  rude  spot  in  the  world  ? 
— because  a plain  servant-woman  was  about  to  bring  in  the 
dinner,  the  wmiter  being  absent  on  leave  at  Coleraine  1 O heaven 
and  earth  1 where  will  the  genteel  end?  I replied  philosophi- 
cally that  I did  not  care  twopence  for  the  plainness  or  beaut}^ 
of  the  waiter,  but  that  it  was  the  dinner  I looked  to,  the  frying 
whereof  made  a great  noise  in  the  huge  lonel}^  house  ; and  it 
must  be  said,  that  though  the  lady  ivas  plain,  the  repast  was 
exceed ingl}'  good.  “ I have  expended  my  little  all,”  saj’s  the 
landlad}’,  stepping  in  with  a speech  after  dinner,  “ in  the  build- 
ing of  this  establishment ; and  though  to  a man  its  profits  may 
a[)pear  small,  to  such  a being  as  I am  it  will  bring,  I trust,  a 
sufficient  return  ; ” and  on  m}'  asking  her  why  she  took  the 
place,  she  replied  that  she  had  always,  from  her  earliest  youth, 
a fancv  to  dwell  in  that  spot,  and  had  accordingly  realized  her 
w'ish  by  building  this  hotel  — this  mausoleum.  In  spite  of  the 
bright  fire,  and  the  good  dinner,  and  the  good  wine,  it  was 
impossible  to  feel  comfortable  in  the  place  ; and  when  the  car 
wheels  were  heard,  I jumped  up  with  Joy  to  take  my  depart- 
ure and  forget  the  awful  lonely  shore,  and  that  wild,  dismal, 
genteel  inn.  A ride  over  a wide  gusty  countiy,  in  a gray, 
misty,  half-moonlight,  the  loss  of  a wheel  at  Bushmills,  and 
the  escape  fi'om  a fumble,  were  tlie  delightful  varieties  after 
the  late  awful  occurrences.  “Such  a being”  as  I am,  would 
die  of  loneliness  in  that  hotel ; and  so  let  all  brother  Cockne^^s 
be  warned. 

Some  time  before  we  came  to  it,  we  saw  the  long  line  of  mist 
that  lay  above  the  Bann,  and  coming  through  a dirt}^  suburb  of 
low  cottages,  passed  down  a broad  street  with  gas  and  lamps 
in  it  (thank  heaven,  there  are  people  once  more  1),  and  at  length 
drove  iq)  in  state,  across  a gas-pipe,  in  a market-place,  before 
an  hotel  in  the  town  of  Coleraine,  famous  for  linen  and  for 
Beautiful  Kitty,  who  must  be  old  and  ugly  now,  for  it’s  a good 
five-and-thirty  years  since  she  broke  her  pitcher,  according  to 
Mr.  IMoorc’s  account  of  her.  Tlie  scene  as  we  entered  the 
Diamond  was  rather  a lively  one  — a score  of  little  stalls  were 
brilliant  with  lights;  the  people  were  thronging  in  the  place 
making  their  Saturday  bargains  ; the  town  clock  began  to  toll 


THE  ILHSII  SKETCH  HOOK. 


25L 


nine:  and  hark!  faithful  to  a minute,  the  liorn  of  the  Derry 
mail  was  heard  tootooing,  and  four  commercial  gentlemen, 
with  Scotch  accents,  rushed  into  the  hotel  at  the  same  time  with 
1113’ self. 

Among  the  heauties  of  Coleraine  ma)’  he  mentioned  the  price 
of  beef,  which  a gentleman  told  me  may  be  had  for  four[)ence 
a pound  ; and  1 saw  him  [nircliase  an  excellent  codfish  for  a 
shilling.  I am  bound,  too,  to  state  for  the  benefit  of  as[)iring 
Hadicals,  what  two  Conservative  citizens  of  the  jilace  stated  to 
me.  viz.  ; — that  though  there  were  two  Conservative  candidates 
then  canvassing  the  town,  on  account  of  a vacancy  in  the  reii- 
resentation,  the  voters  were  so  truly  liberal  that  tlaw  would 
elect  any  person  of  an^'  other  [political  creed,  who  would  simply 
bring  money  enough  to  [inrcliase  their  votes.  There  are  220 
voters,  it  appears  ; of  whom  it  is  not,  however,  necessary  to 
'•‘argue”  with  more  than  fiftv,  who  alone  are  open  to  convic- 
tion ; but  as  parties  are  pretty  equalh'  balanced,  the  votes  of 
the  quinqnagint,  of  course,  carry  an  immense  weight  with  them. 
^Vell,  this  is  all  discussed  calmlv  standing  on  an  inn-steps,  with 
a jollv  landlord  and  a professional  man  of  the  town  to  give  the 
information.  So,  heaven  bless  us,  the  wa}’S  of  London  are 
beginning  to  be  known  even  here.  Gentilit}’  has  alread}’  taken 
up  her  seat  in  the  Giant’s  Causewa^q  where  she  apologizes  for 
the  plainness  of  her  look  : and,  lo  ! here  is  bribery,  as  bold  as 
in  the  most  civilized  places — hundreds  and  hundreds  of  miles 
away  from  St.  Stephen’s  and  Pall  Mall.  I wonder,  in  that  little 
island  of  Raghery,  so  wild  and  lonel}^  whether  civilization  is 
beginning  to  dawn  upon  them?  — whether  the}' bribe  and  are 
genteel?  But  for  the  rough  sea  of  3'esterda}',  1 think  1 would 
have  fled  thither  to  make  the  trial. 

The  town  of  Coleraine,  with  a number  of  cabin  suburbs 
belonging  to  it,  lies  picturesquely  grouped  on  the  Bann  river: 
and  the  whole  of  the  little  citv  was  echoing  with  psalms  as  I 
walked  through  it  on  the  Sunday  morning.  The  pietv  of  the 
people  seems  remarkable  ; some  of  the  inns  even  will  nc  t I'eccive 
travellers  on  Sunday  ; and  this  is  written  in  an  hotel,  of  which 
everv  room  is  provided  with  a Testament,  containing  an  injunc- 
tion on  the  [)art  of  the  landlord  to  consider  this  world  itself  as 
only  a passing  abode.  Is  it  well  that  Boniface  should  furnish 
his  guest  with  Bibles  as  well  as  bills,  and  sometimes  shut  his 
door  on  a traveller,  who  has  no  other  choice  but  to  read  it  on  a 
Sunday?  I heard  of  a gentleman  arriving  from  ship-board  at 
Kilrush  on  a Sundaw  wlien  the  pious  hotel-keeper  refused  him 
admittance  ; and  some  moi’e  tales,  which  to  go  into  would  re 


282 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


quire  the  introduction  of  private  names  and  circumstances,  but 
would  tend  to  show  that  the  Protestant  of  the  North  is  as  much 
priest-ridden  as  the  Catholic  of  the  South : — priest  and  old- 
woman  ridden,  for  there  are  certain  expounders  of  doc- 
trine in  our  church,  who  are  not,  I believe,  to  be  found  in 
the  church  of  Rome  ; and  woe  betide  the  stranger  who  comes 
in  to  settle  in  these  parts,  if  his  “ seriousness”  be  not  satisfac- 
tory to  the  heads  (with  false  fronts  to  most  of  them)  of  the 
congregations. 

Look  at  that  little  snug  harbor  of  Portrush ! a hideous  new 
castle  standing  on  a rock  protects  it  on  one  Side,  a snug  row  of 
gentlemen’s  cottages  curves  round  the  shore  facing  northward, 
a bath-house,  an  hotel,  more  smart  houses,  face  the  beach 
westward,  defended  by  another  mound  of  rocks.  In  the  centre 
of  the  little  town  stands  a new-built  church ; and  the  whole 
place  has  an  air  of  comfort  and  neatness  which  is  seldom  seen 
in  Ireland.  One  would  fancy  that  all  the  tenants  of  these 
pretty  snug  habitations,  sheltered  in  this  nook  far  awa}^  from 
the  world,  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  be  happ}’,  and  spend  their 
little  comfortable  means  in  snug  little  hospitalities  among  one 
another,  and  kind  little  charities  among  the  poor.  What  does 
a man  in  active  life  ask  for  more  than  to  retire  to  such  a com- 
petence, to  such  a snug  nook  of  the  world ; and  there  repose 
with  a stock  of  health}'  children  round  the  fireside,  a friend 
within  call,  and  the  means  of  decent  hospitality  wherewith  to 
treat  him? 

Let  any  one  meditating  this  pleasant  sort  of  retreat,  and 
charmed  with  the  look  of  this  or  that  place  as  peculiarl}’  suited 
to  his  purpose,  take  a special  care  to  understand  his  neighbor- 
hood first,  before  he  commit  himself,  by  lease-signing  or  house- 
buying. It  is  not  sufficient  that  you  should  be  honest,  kind- 
hearted,  hospitable,  of  good  family  — what  are  your  opinions 
u[)on  religious  subjects?  Are  they  such  as  agree  with  the 
notions  of  old  Lady  This,  or  Mrs.  That,  who  are  the  patron- 
esses of  the  village?  If  not,  woe  betide  }'ou  ! you  will  be 
shunned  by  the  rest  of  the  society,  thwarted  in  }'our  attempts 
to  do  good,  whispered  against  over  evangelical  bohea  and 
serious  muffins.  Lady  This  will  inform  every  new  arrival  that 
you  are  a reprobate,  and  lost,  and  Mrs.  That  will  consign  you 
and  your  daughters,  and  3'our  wife  (a  worth}'  woman,  but, 
alas!  united  to  that  sad  worldly  man!)  to  damnation.  The 
clei’gyman  who  partakes  of  the  muffins  and  bohea  before  men- 
tioned, will  very  possibly  preach  sermons  against  you  from  the 
pulpit : this  was  not  done  at  Portstewart  to  my  knowledge,  but 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


283 


I have  had  the  pleasure  of  sitting  under  a minister  in  Ireland 
who  insulted  the  veryj)atron  who  gave  him  his  living,  discours- 
ing upon  the  sinfulness  of  partridge-shooting,  and  threatening 
hell-lire  as  the  last  “meet”  for  fox- him  tors  ; until  the  squire, 
one  of  the  best  and  most  charitable  resident  landlords  in  Ire- 
land, was  absolutel}'  driven  out  of  the  church  where  his  fathers 
had  worshipped  for  hundreds  of  years,  by  the  insults  of  this 
howling  evangelical  inquisitor. 

So  much  as  this  I did  not  hear  at  Portstewart ; but  1 was 
told  tliat  at  yonder  neat-looking  bath-house  a dying  woman  was 
denied  a bath  on  a Sunday.  1)>’  a clause  of  the  lease  b}'  whicli 
the  bath-owner  rents  his  establishment,  he  is  forbidden  to  give 
baths  to  any  one  on  the  Sundav.  Tlie  landlord  of  the  inn,  for- 
sooth, shuts  his  gates  on  the  same  da\',  and  his  conscience  on 
week-davs  will  not  allow  liim  to  su[)[)ly  his  guests  with  wluskey 
or  ardent  s[)irits.  I was  told  by  mv  friend,  that  because  he 
refused  to  subscribe  for  some  fancy  charity,  he  received  a let- 
ter to  state  that  “ he  spent  more  in  one  dinner  than  in  charily 
in  the  course  of  the  year.”  M}'  worthy  friend  did  not  care  to 
contradict  the  statement,  as  why  should  a man  deign  to  med- 
dle with  such  a lie?  But  think  how  all  the  fishes,  and  all  (he 
pieces  of  meat,  and  all  the  people  who  went  in  and  out  of  his 
snug  cottage  by  the  sea-side  must  have  lieeii  watched  b}'  the 
serious  roundabout!  The  sea  is  not  more  constant  roaring 
there,  than  scandal  is  whispering.  How  happ}'  I felt,  while 
hearing  these  histories  (demure  heads  in  crimped  ca[)S  peeping 
over  the  blinds  at  us  as  we  walked  on  the  beach),  to  think  I am 
a Cockne}',  and  don’t  know  the  name  of  the  man  who  lives  next 
door  to  me  I 

I have  heard  various  stories,  of  course  from  persons  of  va- 
rious wa}’s  of  thinking,  charging  their  opponents  with  lypoc- 
ris3%  and  proving  the  charge  by  statements  clearly  showing  that 
the  priests,  the  preachers,  or  the  professing  religionists  in  ques- 
tion, belied  their  professions  wofull}'  In'  their  practice.  But 
in  matters  of  religion,  h3'poerisy  is  so  awful  a charge  to  make 
against  a man,  that  I think  it  is  almost  unfair  to  mention  even 
the  cases  in  which  it  is  proven,  and  which, — as,  pra3'  God, 
the3"  are  but  exceptional,  — a person  should  be  veiy  careful  of 
mentioning,  lest  they  be  considered  to  appl3'  general I3'.  Tar- 
tuffe  has  been  always  a disgusting  pla3'  to  me  to  see,  in  spite  of 
its  sense  and  its  wit ; and  so,  instead  of  printing,  here  or  else- 
where, a few  stories  of  the  Tartuffe  kind  which  I have  heard  in 
Ireland,  the  best  way  will  be  to  tiy  and  forget  them.  It  is  an 
awful  thing  to  sa3"  of  aiy^  man  walking  under  God’s  sun  by  the 


284 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


side  of  us,  “You  are  a hypocrite,  lying  as  you  use  the  Most 
Sacred  Name,  knowing  that  you  lie  while  you  use  it.”  Let  it 
be  the  privilege  of  any  sect  that  is  so  minded,  to  imagine  that 
' there  is  perdition  in  store  for  all  the  rest  of  God’s  creatures 
who  do  not  think  with  them  : but  the  easy  countercharge  of 
hypocrisy,  which  the  world  has  been  in  the  habit  of  making  in 
its  turn,  is  surely  just  as  fatal  and  bigoted  an  accusation  as  any 
that  the  sects  make  against  the  world. 

What  has  this  disquisition  to  do  apropos  of  a walk  on  the 
beach  at  Portstewart?  Why,  it  ma}'  be  made  here  as  well  as 
in  other  parts  of  Ireland,  or  elsewhere  as  well,  perhaps,  as  here. 
It  is  the  most  priest-ridden  of  countries  ; Catholic  clergymen 
lord  it  over  their  ragged  hocks,  as  Protestant  preachers,  lay 
and  clerical,  over  their  more  genteel  co-religionists.  Bound  to 
inculcate  peace  and  good-will,  their  whole  life  is  one  of  emnity 
and  distrust. 

Walking  awa}’  from  the  little  ba}’  and  the*  disquisition  wliicli 
has  somehow  been  raging  there, we  went  across  some  wild  dreaiy 
highlands  to  the  neighboring  little  town  of  Portrush,  where  is  a 
neat  town  and  houses,  and  a harbor,  and  a new  church  too,  so 
like  the  last-named  place  that  I thought  for  a moment  we  had 
only  made  a round,  and  were  back  again  at  Portstewart.  Some 
gentlemen  of  the  place,  and  my  guide,  who  had  a neighborly 
liking  for  it,  showed  me  the  new  church,  and  seemed  to  be  well 
pleased  with  the  edifice  ; which  is,  indeed,  a neat  and  convenient 
one,  of  a rather  irregular  Gothic.  The  best  thing  about  the 
church,  I think,  was  the  histoiy  of  it.  The  old  church  had 
lain  some  miles  off,  in  the  most  inconvenient  part  of  the  par- 
ish, whereupon  the  clergyman  and  some  of  the  gentiy  had 
raised  a subscription  in  order  to  build  the  [iresent  church. 
The  expenses  liad  exceeded  the  estimates,  or  the  subscriptions 
had  fallen  short  of  the  sums  necessary  ; and  the  church,  in  con- 
sequence, was  opened  with  a debt  on  it,  which  the  rector  and 
two  more  of  the  gentry  had  taken  on  their  shoulders.  The  liv- 
ing is  a small  one,  the  other  two  gentlemen  going  bail  for  the 
edifice  not  so  rich  as  to  think  light  of  the  paj  ment  of  a couple 
of  hundred  pounds  be3'ond  their  previous  subscriptions  — the 
lists  are  therefore  still  open  ; and  the  clergyman  expressed  him- 
self perfectly  satisfied  either  that  he  would  be  reimbursed  one 
day  or  other,  or  that  he  would  be  able  to  make  out  the  pay- 
ment of  the  money  for  which  he  stood  engaged.  Most  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  churches  that  I have  seen  through  the  countiy 
have  been  built  in  this  way,  — begun  when  money  enough  was 
levied  for  constructing  the  foundation,  elevated  by  degrees  as 


'I'llE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


285 


fivsh  subscriptions  came  in,  and  finished  — the  wa}',  I don’t 
think  1 have  seen  one  finished  ; but  there  is  something  noble 
in  the  spirit  (however  certain  economists  may  cavil  at  it)  that 
leads  people  to  commence  these  jiions  undertakings  with  the 
liiMii  trust  that  “ Heaven  will  provide.” 

Eastward  from  Portrush,  we  came  upon  a beautiful  level  sand 
which  leads  to  the  White  Rocks,  a famous  place  of  resort  for 
the  frequenters  of  the  neighboring  watering-places.  Here  are 
caves,  and  for  a considerable  distance  a view  of  the  wild  and 
gloom}'  Antrim  coast  as  far  as  Bengore.  Midway,  jutting  into 
the  sea,  (and  I was  glad  it  was  so  lar  ofit)  was  the  Causeway  ; 
and  nearer,  the  gray  towers  of  Dunluce. 

Looking  north,  were  the  blue  Scotch  hills  and  the  neigh- 
boring Raghery  Island.  Nearer  Portrush  were  two  rocky  isl- 
ands, called  the  Skerries,  of  which  a sportsman  of  our  party 
vaunted  the  capabilities,  regretting  that  my  stay  was  not  longer, 
so  that  I might  land  and  shoot  a few  ducks  there.  This  un- 
lucky lateness  of  the  season  struck  me  also  as  a most  afflicting 
circumstance.  He . said  also  that  fish  were  caught  off  the 
island  — not  fish  good  to  eat,  but  very  strong  at  pulling,  eager 
of  biting,  and  afibrding  a great  deal  of  sport.  And  so  we 
turned  our  backs  once  more  upon  the  Giant’s  Causeway,  and 
the  grim  coast  on  which  it  lies  ; and  as  my  taste  in  life  leads 
me  to  prefer  looking  at  the  smiling  fresh  face  of  a young 
cheerful  beauty,  rather  than  at  the  fierce  eountenance  and  high 
features  of  a dishevelled  Meg  Merrilies,  1 must  say  again  that 
1 was  glad  to  turn  my  back  on  this  severe  part  of  the  Antrim 
coast,  and  my  steps  towards  Derry. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

PEG  OF  LIMAVADDY. 

Between  Coleraine  and  Derry  there  is  a daily  car  (besides 
one  or  two  occasional  queer-looking  coaches),  and  I had  this 
vehicle,  with  an  intelligent  driver,  and  a horse  with  a hideous 
raw  on  his  shoulder,  entirely  to  m}'self  for  the  five-and-twenty 
miles  of  our  journey.  The  cabins  of  Colei-aine  are  not  parted 
with  in  a hurry,  and  we  crossed  the  bridge,  and  went  up 


286 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


and  down  the  hills  of  one  of  the  suburban  streets,  the  Bann 
flowing  picturesquely  to  our  left ; a large  Catholic  chapel,  the 
before-mentioned  cabins,  and  farther  on,  some  neat-looking 
houses  and  plantations,  to  our  right.  Then  we  began  ascend- 
ing wide  lonely  hills,  pools  of  bog  shining  here  and  there 
amongst  them,  with  birds,  both  black  and  white,  both  geese 
and  crows,  on  the  hunt.  Some  of  the  stubble  was  already 
ploughed  up,  but  by  the  side  of  most  cottages  you  saw  a black 
potato-fleld  that  it.  was  time  to  dig  now,  for  the  weather  was 
changing  and  the  winds  beginning  to  roar.  Woods,  whenever 
we  passed  them,  were  flinging  round  eddies  of  mustard-colored 
leaves  ; the  white  trunks  of  lime  and  ash  trees  beginning  to 
look  very  bare. 

Then  we  stopped  to  give  the  raw  -backed  horse  water ; then 
we  trotted  down  a hill  with  a noble  bleak  prospect  of  Lough 
Foyle  and  the  surrounding  mountains  before  us,  until  we 
reached  the  town  of  Newdown  Limavaddy,  where  the  raw- 
backed  horse  was  exchanged  for  anotlier  not  much  more  agree- 
able in  his  appearance,  though,  like  his  comrade,  not  slow  on 
the  road. 

Newtown  Limavaddy  is  the  third  town  in  the  county  of 
Londonderiy.  It  comprises  three  v/ell-built  streets,  the  others 
are  inferior ; it  is,  however,  respectably'  inhabited : all  this 
may'  be  true,  as  the  well-informed  Guide-book  avers,  but  I am 
bound  to  say  that  1 was  thinking  of  something  else  as  we  drove 
through  the  town,  having  fallen  eternally'  in  love  during  the  ten 
minutes  of  our  stay'. 

Yes,  Feggv  of  Limavaddy',  if  Bairow'  and  Inglis  have  gone 
to  Connemara  to  fall  in  love  w'ith  the  Misses  Fly'nn,  let  us  be 
allowed  to  come  to  Ulster  and  offer  a tril)utc  of  praise  at  y'our 
feet — at  your  stockiiigless  feet,  O Margaret ! Uo  y^ou  remem- 
ber the  October  day  (’twas  the  first  day'  of  tlie  hard  w'eatber), 
when  the  way-worn  traveller  entered  your  inn  ? But  the  circum- 
stances of  this  passion  had  bettei  be  chronicled  in  deathless 
verse. 


Pf:G  OF  LIMAVADDY. 


Riding  from  Coleraine 
(Famed  for  lovely  Kitty), 


Weary  was  his  soul, 


Shivering  and  sad  he 


Came  a Cockney  bound 
Unto  Derry  city ; 


Bumped  along  the  road 
Leads  to  Limavaddy. 


THE  IRTSII  SKETCH  BOOK. 


287 


Mountains  stretch’d  around, 
(iloomy  was  their  tinting, 

And  the  liorse’s  hoofs 
Made  a dismal  dinting; 

Wind  upon  tlie  heatli 
Howling  was  and  piping. 

On  the  heath  and  bog. 

Black  with  many  a snipe  lu; 

Mid  tlie  bogs  of  black. 

Silver  pools  were  flashing, 

Crows  upon  tlieir  sides 

Picking  were  and  splashing 
Cockney  on  tlie  car 
Closer  folds  his  jilaidy. 
Grumbling  at  the  road 
Leads  to  Limavaddy. 

Through  the  crashing  woods 
Autumn  brawl’d  and  blusler’d. 
Tossing  round  about 

Leaves  the  hue  of  nuistar  J ; 
Yonder  lay  Lough  Foyle, 

Which  a storm  was  whipping. 
Covering  with  mist 

Lake,  and  shores,  and  shij-ping. 
Uj)  and  down  the  hill 

(Nothing  could  be  bolder), 

Horse  went  with  a raw, 

Bleeding  on  his  shoulder. 

“ Where  are  horses  change!  ? ” 
Said  I to  the  laddy 
Driving  on  the  box  : 

“ Sir,  at  Limavaddy.” 

Limavaddy  inn’s 

But  a humble  baithouse. 

Where  you  may  procure 
Whiskey  and  potatoes ; 

Landlord  at  the  door 
Gives  a smiling  welcome 
To  the  shivering  wights 
Who  to  his  hotel  come. 

Landlady  within 

Sits  and  knits  a stocking. 

With  a wary  foot 
Baby’s  cradle  rocking. 

To  the  chimney  nook. 

Having  found  admittance, 

There  I watch  a pup 

Playing  with  two  kittens  ; 
(Playing  round  the  fire, 

Which  of  blazing  turf  is, 

Roaring  to  the  pot 

Which  bubbles  with  the  murphies;) 


And  the  cradled  babe 
Fond  the  mother  nursed  it ! 
Singing  it  a song 
As  she  twists  the  worsted ! 

Up  and  down  the  stair 
'bwo  more  young  ones  patter 
(Twins  were  never  seen 
Dirtier  nor  fatter); 

Both  have  mottled  legs. 

Both  have  snubby  noses. 

Both  have  — Here  the  Host 
Kindly  interposes : 

“ Sure  you  must  be  froze 
With  the  sleet  and  hail,  sir. 

So  will  you  have  some  punch, 

Or  will  you  have  some  ale,  sir  ? ” 

Presently  a maid 
Enters  with  the  liquor, 

(Half  a pint  of  ale 
Frothing  in  a beaker). 

Gods!  I didn’t  know 

What  my  beating  heart  meant, 
Hebe’s  self  I thougTit 
Enter’d  the  apartment. 

As  she  came  she  smiled. 

And  the  smile  bewitching, 

On  my  word  and  honor. 

Lighted  all  the  kUchenl 

With  a curtsy  neat 

Greeting  the  newcomer. 

Lovely,  smiling  Peg 
Offers  me  the  rummer  ; 

But  my  trembling  hand 
Up  the  beaker  tilted. 

And  the  glass  of  ale 
Every  drop  I spilt  it : 

Spilt  it  every  drop 

(Dames,  who  read  my  volumes^ 
Pardon  such  a word,) 

On  my  whatd’ycall’ems ! 

Witnessing  the  sight 
Of  that  dire  disaster. 

Out  began  to  laugh 

Missis,  maid,  and  master; 

Such  a merry  peal, 

’Specially  Miss  Peg’s  was. 

(As  the  glass  of  ale 

Trickling  down  my  legs  w'as), 
That  the  joyful  sound 
Of  that  ringing  laughter 
Eclioed  in  my  ears 

Many  a long  day  after. 


288 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Such  a silver  peal ! 

In  the  meadows  listening, 

You  who’ve  heard  the  bells 
Ringing  to  a christening; 

You  who  ever  heard 
Caradori  pretty, 

Smiling  like  an  angel 
Singing  “ Giovinetti,” 

Fancy  Peggy’s  laugh. 

Sweet,  and  clear  and  cheerful. 
At  my  pantaloons 

With  half  a pint  of  beer  full ! 

When  the  laugh  was  done, 

Peg,  the  pretty  hussy. 

Moved  about  the  room 
Wonderfully  busy; 

Now  she  looks  to  see 
If  the  kettle  keep  hot. 

Now  she  rubs  the  spoons. 

Now  she  cleans  the  teapot ; 
Now  she  sets  the  cups 
Trimly  and  secure, 

Now  she  scours  a pot 
And  so  it  was  I drew  her. 


Thus  it  was  I drew  her 
Scouring  of  a kettle.* 

(Faith  ! her  blushing  cheeks 
Redden’d  on  the  metal!) 

Ah  ! but  ’tis  in  vain 
That  I try  to  sketch  it; 

The  pot  perhaps  is  like. 

But  Peggy’s  face  is  wretched. 
No  : tlie  best  of  lead. 

And  of  Indian-rubber, 

Never  could  depict 

That  sweet  kettle-scrubber ! 

See  her  as  she  moves  1 
Scarce  tlie  ground  she  touches, 
Airy  as  a fay. 

Graceful  as  a duchess ; 

Bare  her  rounded  arm, 

Bare  her  little  leg  is, 

Vestris  never  show’d 
Ankles  like  to  Peggy’s  : 
Braided  is  her  liair, 

Soft  her  look  and  modest, 

Slim  her  little  waist 
Comfortably  bodiced. 


Tins  I do  declare, 

Happy  is  tlie  laddy 
Who  tlie  heart  can  share 
Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy  ; 
Married  if  she  were. 

Blest  would  be  the  daddy 
Of  the  children  fair 
Of  I’eg  of  Limavaddy  ; 
Beauty  is  not  rare 
In  the  land  of  Paddy, 
Fair  beyond  compare 
Is  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 


Citizen  or  squire, 

Tory,  Whig,  or  Radi- 
cal would  all  desire 
Peg  of  Limavaddy. 

Had  I Homer’s  fire. 

Or  that  of  Sergeant  Taddy, 
Meetly  I’d  admire 
Peg  of  Limavaddy. 

And  till  I expire. 

Or  till  I grow  mad,  I 
Will  sing  unto  my  lyre 
Peg  of  Limavaddy ! 


* The  late  Mr.  Pope  represents  Camilla  as  scouring  the  plain,''  an 
absurd  and  useless  task.  Peggy’s  occupation  witli  the  kettle  is  much 
more  simple  and  noble.  The  second  line  of  this  verse  (wliereof  the  author 
scorns  to  deny  an  obligation)  is  from  the  celebrated  “ Fritliiof  ” of  Esaias 
Tigner.  A maiden  is  serving  warriors  to  drink,  and  is  standing  by  a shield 
— “ Und  die  Runde  des  Schildes  ward  wie  das  Magdeleiu  roth,”  — perhaps 
the  above  is  the  best  thing  in  both  poems. 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


289 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

TEMPLEMOYLE  DERRY. 

From  Newtown  Limavaddy  to  Deny  the  traveller  has  maiyy 
wild  and  noble  prospects  of  Longh  Foyle  and  the  plains  and 
inonntains  round  it,  and  of  scenes  Avhich  ina}"  possibh'  in  this 
conntiy  be  still  more  agreeable  to  him  — of  smiling  cultivation, 
and  comfortable  well-built  villages,  such  as  are  011I3'  too  rare  in 
Ireland.  Of  a great  part  of  this  district  the  London  Com- 
panies are  landlords  — the  best  of  landlords,  too,  according  to 
the  report  I could  gather ; and  their  good  stewardsliip  shows 
itself  especially  in  the  neat  villages  of  Muff  and  Ballikellv, 
through  both  of  which  I passed.  In  Ballikellv,  l)esides  numer- 
ous simple,  stout,  brick-built  dwellings  for  the  peasantiy,  with 
their  shining  windows  and  trim  garden-plots,  is  a Presbyterian 
meeting-house,  so  well-built,  substantial,  and  handsome,  so 
different  from  the  lean,  pretentious,  sliam-Gothic  ecclesiastieal 
edifices  which  have  been  erected  of  late  years  in  Ireland,  that 
it  ean’t  fail  to  strike  the  tourist  who  has  made  architecture  his 
study  or  his  pleasure.  The  gentlemen’s  seats  in  the  district  are 
numerous  and  handsome  ; and  the  whole  movement  along  the 
road  betokened  cheerfulness  and  prosperous  activity. 

As  the  carman  had  no  other  })assengers  but  myself,  he  made 
no  objection  to  carry  me  a couple  of  miles  out  of  his  way, 
through  the  village  of  Muff,  belonging  to  the  Grocers  of  Lon- 
don (and  so  handsomely  and  comfortabl}'  built  by  them  as  to 
cause  all  Cockneys  to  exclaim,  “Well  done  onr  side!”)  and 
thence  to  a veiy  interesting  institution,  which  was  established 
some  fifteen  years  since  in  the  neighborhood  — the  Agricultural 
Seminary  of  Templemoyle.  It  lies  on  a hill  in  a pretty  wooded 
countiy,  and  is  most  curiousl}'  secluded  from  the  world  by  the 
tortuonsness  of  the  road  which  approaches  it. 

Of  course  it  is  not  m3"  business  to  report  upon  the  agricul- 
tural S3"stem  practised  there,  or  to  discourse  on  the  state  of  the 
land  or  the  crops  ; the  best  testimony  on  this  subject  is  the  fact, 
that  the  Institution  hired,  at  a small  rental,  a tract  of  land, 
which  was  reclaimed  and  farmed,  and  that  of  this  farm  the 
landlord  has  now  taken  possession,  leaving  the  3'oung  farmers 
to  labor  on  a new  tract  of  land,  for  which  the}"  pa}"  five  times 
as  much  rent  as  for  their  former  holding.  But  though  a person 


290 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


versed  in  agriculture  could  give  a far  more  satisfactoiy  account 
of  the  place  than  one  to  whom  such  pursuits  are  quite  un- 
familiar, there  is  a great  deal  about  the  establishment  which 
an}^  citizen  can  remark  on ; and  he  must  be  a very  difficult 
Cockne}^  indeed  who  won’t  be  pleased  here. 

After  winding  in  and  out,  and  up  and  down,  and  round 
about  the  eminence  on  which  the  house  stands,  we  at  last  found 
an  entrance  to  it,  by  a court-}^ard,  neat,  well-built,  and  spacious, 
wliere  are  the  stables  and  numerous  offices  of  the  farm.  The 
scholars  were  at  dinner  off  a comfortable  meal  of  boiled  beef, 
})otatoes,  and  cabbages,  when  I arrived ; a master  was  reading* 
a book  of  histoiy  to  them  ; and  silence,  it  appears,  is  preserved 
during  the  dinner.  Se\-ent3'  scholars  were  here  assembled, 
some  3’oung,  and  some  expanded  into  six  feet  and  whiskers  — 
all,  however,  are  made  to  maintain  exactly"  the  same  discipline, 
whether  whiskered  or  not. 

The  “head  farmer”  of  the  school,  Mr.  Campbell,  a very 
intelligent  Scotch  gentleman,  was  good  enough  to  conduct  me 
over  the  plaee  and  the  farm,  and  to  give  a histoiy  of  the  estab- 
lishment and  the  course  pursued  there.  The  Seminaiy  was 
founded  in  1827,  b}'  the  North-west  of  Ireland  Societ}’,  by 
members  of  which  and  others  about  three  thousand  pounds  were 
subscribed,  and  the  buildings  of  the  school  erected.  These  are 
siiacious,  simple,  and  comfortable  : there  is  a good  stone  house, 
with  aiiy  dormitories,  school-rooms,  &c.,  and  large  and  con- 
venient offices.  The  establishment  had,  at  first,  some  diffi- 
culties to  contend  with,  and  for  some  time  did  not  number 
more  than  thirty  piqiils.  At  present,  there  are  seventy  schol- 
ars, paying  ten  pounds  a year,  with  which  sum,  and  the  labor 
of  the  iHipils  on  the  farm,  and  the  produce  of  it,  the  school  is 
entirel}'  supported.  The  reader  will,  perhaps,  hke  to  see  an 
extract  from  the  Report  of  the  school,  which  contains  more 
details  regarding  it. 

“TEMPLEMOYLE  WOPK  AND  SCHOOL  TABLE. 

“ From  20th  March  to  2Srd  September. 

“ Boys  divided  into  two  classes,  A and  B. 

At  work.  At  school 

All  rise. 

A B 

Breakfast. 

A B 

Dinner  and  recreation 

B A 

Pecreation. 

Prepare  lessons  for  next  day. 

To  bed. 


Hours. 

5^- 
C— 8 

8— 9 

9— 1 
1—2 
2—6 

6— 7 

7- 9 
9— 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


291 


“On  Tuesday  B commences  work  in  the  morning  and  A at  school,  and 
so  on  alternate  days. 

“ Each  class  is  again  subdivided  into  three  divisions,  over  each  of  which 
is  placed  a monitor,  selected  from  the  steadiest  and  best-informed  boys  ; he 
receives  the  Head  Earmcr’s  directions  as  to  the  work  to  be  done,  and  super- 
intends his  [>arty  while  performing  it. 

“In  winter  the  time  of  labor  is  shortened  according  to  the  length  of  the 
day,  and  the  hours  at  school  increased. 

“ In  wet  days,  when  the  boys  cannot  work  out,  all  are  required  to 
attc'ud  school. 


“ Dietary. 

“ Breakfast. — Eleven  ounces  of  oatmeal  made  in  stirabout,  one  pint  of 
sweet  milk. 

''Dinner.  — Sunday  — Three-quarters  of  a pound  of  beef  stewed  with 
l)ep{)er  and  onions,  or  one  half-pound  of  corned  beef  with  cabbage,  and 
three  and  a half  i)ouiuls  of  potatoes. 

“Monday  — One  half-pound  of  pickled  beef,  three  and  a half  pounds 
of  potatoes,  one  ]>int  of  buttermilk. 

“Tuesday  — Broth  made  of  one  half-pound  of  Vjeef,  with  leeks,  cab- 
bages, and  i)arsley,  and  three  and  a half  i)ounds  of  potatoes. 

“Wednesday  — 'I'wo  ounces  of  l)utter,  eight  ounces  of  oatmeal  made 
into  bread,  three  and  a half  pounds  of  potatoes,  and  one  pint  of  sweet  milk 

“ Thursday  — Half  a jiound  of  pickled  jiork,  with  cabbage  or  turnips, 
and  three  and  a half  pounds  of  potatoes. 

“ Friday  — Two  ounces  of  butter,  eight  ounces  wheat  meal  made  into 
bread,  one  pint  of  sweet  milk  or  fresh  buttermilk,  three  and  a half  pounds 
of  })otatoes. 

“Saturday — Two  ounces  of  butter,  one  pound  of  potatoes  mashed, 
eight  ounces  of  wheat  meal  made  into  bread,  two  and  a half  pounds  of  po- 
tatoes, one  pint  of  buttermilk. 

" Supper.  — In  summer,  tlummery  made  of  one  pound  of  oatmeal  seeds, 
and  one  pint  of  sweet  milk.  In  winter,  three  and  a half  pounds  of  pota- 
toes, and  one  pint  of  buttermilk  or  sweet  milk. 

“Rules  for  the  Te:uplemoyle  School. 

" 1.  The  pupils  are  required  to  say  their  prayers  in  the  morning,  before 
leaving  the  dormitory,  and  at  night,  before  retiring  to  rest,  each  separately, 
and  after  the  manner  to  which  he  has  been  haliitiiated. 

“2.  The  pupils  are  requested  to  wash  their  hands  and  faces  before  the 
commencement  of  business  in  the  morning,  on  returning  from  agricultural 
Labor,  and  after  dinner. 

“ 3.  The  pupils  are  required  to  pay  the  strictest  attention  to  their  in- 
structors, both  during  the  hours  of  agricultural  and  literary  occupation. 

" 4.  Strife,  disobedience,  inattention,  or  any  description  of  riotous  or 
disorderly  conduct,  is  punishable  by  extra  labor  or  confinement,  as  directed 
by  the  Committee,  according  to  circumstances. 

“ 5.  Diligent  and  respectful  behavior,  continued  for  a considerable  time, 
will  be  rewarded  by  occasional  permission  for  the  pupil  so  distinguished  to 
visit  his  home. 

“ 6.  No  pupil,  on  obtaining  leave  of  absence,  shall  presume  to  continue 
it  for  a longer  period  than  that  prescribed  to  him  on  leaving  the  Seminary. 

“7.  During  their  rural  labor,  the  pupils  are  to  consider  themselves 
amenable  to  the  authority  of  their  Agricultural  Instructor  alone,  and  during 


292 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


their  attendance  in  tlie  school-room,  to  that  of  their  Literary  Instructor 
alone. 

“ 8.  Non-attendance  during  any  part  of  the  time  allotted  either  for 
literary  or  agricultural  employment,  will  be  punished  as  a serious  offence. 

“ 9.  During  the  hours  of  recreation  the  i)upils  are  to  be  under  the  super- 
intendence of  their  Instructors,  and  not  suffered  to  pass  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  farm,  except  under  their  guidance,  or  with  a written  permission 
from  one  of  them. 

“ 10.  The  pupils  are  required  to  make  up  their  beds,  and  keep  those 
clothes  not  in  immediate  use  neatly  folded  up  in  their  trunks,  and  to  be 
particular  in  never  suffering  any  garment,  book,  implement,  or  other  article 
belonging  to  or  used  by  them,  to  lie  about  in  a slovenly  or  disorderly 
manner. 

“ 11.  Respect  to  superiors,  and  gentleness  of  demeanor,  both  among 
the  pupils  themselves  and  towards  the  servants  and  laborers  of  the  estab- 
lishment, arc  particularly  insisted  upon,  and  will  be  considered  a prominent 
ground  of  approbation  and  reward. 

“ 12.  On  Sundays  the  pupils  are  required  to  attend  their  respective 
places  of  worshij),  accompanied  by  their  Instructors  or  Monitors  ; and  it  is 
earnestly  recommended  to  them  to  employ  a part  of  the  remainder  of  the 
day  in  sincerely  reading  the  Word  of  God,  and  in  such  other  devotional 
exercises  as  their  respective  ministers  may  point  out.’’ 


At  certain  periods  of  the  3'ear,  when  all  hands  are  required, 
such  as  harvest,  &c.,  the  literary  labors  of  the  scholars  are 
stopped,  and  they  are  all  in  the  field.  On  the  present  occasion 
we  followed  Ihein  into  a potato-field,  where  an  army  of  them 
were  enq)loyed  digging  out  the  potatoes ; while  another  regi- 
ment were  trenching-in  elsewhere  for  the  winter : the  bo3’s 
were  leading  the  carts  to  and  fi’o.  To  reach  the  potatoes  we 
had  to  i)ass  a field,  part  of  whicli  was  newlj^  ploughed  : the 
l)loughing  was  the  work  of  the  bo}'S,  too  ; one  of  them  being 
left  witli  an  exi)erienced  ploughman  for  a fortnight  at  a time, 
in  which  space  the  lad  can  ac(juire  some  practice  in  the  art. 
Amongst  tlie  potatoes  and  the  boys  digging  them,  I observed 
a number  of  girls,  taking  them  up  as  dug  and  removing  the  soil 
(Vom  the  roots.  Such  a society  for  seventy  young  men  would, 
in  any  other  country  in  the  world,  be  not  a little  dangerous  ; but 
Mr.  Cami)bell  said  that  no  instance  of  harm  had  ever  occurred 
in  consequence,  and  I believe  his  statement  may  be  full}"  relied 
on  : the  whole  country  bears  testimony  to  this  noble  purity  of 
morals.  Is  there  any  other  in  Europe  which  in  this  point  can 
compare  with  it? 

In  winter  the  form  works  do  not  occupy  the  pupils  so  much,  ' 
and  they  give  more  time  to  their  literary  studies.  They  get 
a good  English  education  ; they  are  grounded  in  arithmetic 
and  mathematics  ; and  I saw  a good  map  of  an  adjacent  farm, 
made  from  actual  survey  by  one  of  the  pupils.  Some  of 


THE  miSII  SKETCH  BOOK. 


293 


them  are  good  di'aiiglitsmen  likewise,  but  of  their  performances 
J could  see  no  specimen,  the  artists  being  abroad,  occupied 
wisel3'  in  digging  the  potatoes. 

And  here,  apropos,  not  of  the  school  but  of  potatoes,  let  me 
tell  a potato  story,  which  is,  1 think,  to  the  purpose,  wherever 
it  is  told.  In  the  countv  of  IMayo  a gentleman  by  the  name  of 
C'rofton  is  a landed  i)ropi'ictor,  in  whose  neighborhood  grea.t 
distress  })i’cvailed  among  the  peasantry  during  the  spring  and 
summer,  when  the  potatoes  of  the  last  year  were  consumed,  and 
before  those  of  the  present  season  were  up.  Mr.  C'rofton,  by 
liberal  donations  on  his  own  part,  and  by  a subscription  wliich 
was  set  on  foot  among  his  friends  in  England  as  well  as  in  Ii’c- 
land,  was  ena1)led  to  collect  a sum  of  money  suflicient  to  j)ur- 
chase  meal  for  the  [)eo})le,  which  was  given  to  them,  or  sold  at 
very  low  i)rices,  until  the  pressure  of  want  was  withdi*nwn,  and 
the  blessed  potato-crop  came  in.  Some  time  in  October,  a 
smart  night’s  frost  made  Mr.  Crofton  think  that  it  was  time  to 
take  in  and  pit  his  own  potatoes,  and  he  told  his  steward  to  get 
1 a b o r e r s a c CO  r d i n g I y . 

Next  day,  on  going  to  the  potato-grounds,  he  found  the 
whole  fields  swai-ming  with  people  ; the  whole  cro[)  was  out  of 
the  ground,  and  again  under  it,  pitted  and  covered,  and  the 
people  gone,  in  a few  hoiii’S.  Jt  was  as  if  the  fairies  that  we 
rt'ad  of  in  the  Irish  legends,  as  coming  to  the  aid  of  good  peo- 
})le  and  helping  them  in  their  labors,  had  taken  a liking  to  this 
good  landlord,  and  taken  in  his  harvest  for  him.  Mr.  Crofton, 
who  knew  who  his  helpers  had  been,  sent  the  steward  to  pay 
them  their  day’s  wages,  and  to  thank  them  at  the  same  time 
for  having  come  to  help  him  at  a time  when  their  labor  was  so 
useful  to  him.  One  and  all  refused  a penu}^ ; and  their  spokes- 
man said,  “They  wished  they  could  do  more  for  the  likes  of 
him  or  his  family.”  I have  heard  of  many  cons[)iracies  in  this 
countiy  ; is  not  this  one  as  woi’thy  to  be  told  as  any  of  them? 

Hound  the  house  of  Templeinoyle  is  a pretty  garden,  which 
the  [)upils  take  pleasure  in  cultivating,  filled  not  with  fruit  (for 
this,  though  there  are  seventy  gardeners,  the  superintendent  said 
somehow  seldom  reached  a ripe  state),  but  Vvitli  kitchen  herbs, 
and  a few  beds  of  pretty  flowers,  such  as  are  best  suited  to 
cottage  horticulture.  Such  simple  carpenters’  and  masons’ 
work  as  the  3'oung  men  can  do  is  likewise  confided  to  them ; 
and  though  the  dietaiy  may  appear  to  the  Englishman  as 
rather  a scanty  one,  and  though  the  English  lads  certainly 
make  at  first  veiy  wry  faces  at  the  stirabout  porridge  (as  tlie\' 
naturally  will  when  first  put  in  the  presence  of  that  abominable 


294 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


mixture),  yet,  after  a time,  strange  to  sa}^,  they  begin  to  find  it 
actuall}'  palatable  ; and  the  best  proof  of  the  excellence  of  the 
diet  is,  that  nobody  is  ever  ill  in  the  institution  ; colds  and 
fevers  and  the  ailments  of  laz}',  gluttonous  gentilitj',  are  un- 
known ; and  the  doctor’s  bill  for  the  last  year,  for  seventy 
pupils,  amounted  to  thirty-five  shillings.  0 beati  agricoliculce  ! 
You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  feel  a little  uneasy  after  half  a 
crown’s  wortli  of  raspberry-tarts,  as  lads  do  at  the  best  public 
schools  ; you  don’t  know  in  what  majestic  polished  hexameters 
the  Roman  poet  has  described  }’our  pursuits  ; 3'ou  are  not 
fiigged  and  flogged  into  Latin  and  Greek  at  the  cost  of  two 
liuiidred  pounds  a 3'ear.  Let  these  be  the  privileges  of  3^0111* 
youthful  betters  ; meanwhile  content  3'ourselves  with  thinking 
that  3'ou  are  preparing  for  a profession,  while  the3'  are  not ; that 
3'ou  are  learning  something  useful,  while  the3^  for  the  most 
})art,  are  not : for  after  all,  as  a man  grows  old  in  the  world, 
old  and  fat,  cricket  is  discovered  not  to  be  aity  longer  veiy 
advantageous  to  him  — even  to  have  pulled  in  the  Trinity  boat 
does  not  in  old  age  amount  to  a substantial  advantage  ; and 
though  to  read  a Greek  play  be  an  immense  pleasure,  3’et  it 
must  be  confessed  few  enjoy  it.  In  the  first  place,  of  the  race 
of  Etonians,  and  Harrovians,  and  Carthusians  that  one  meets 
in  the  world,  very  few  can  read  the  Greek;  of  those  few  — 
there  are  not,  as  I believe,  any  considerable  majority  of  poets. 
Stout  men  in  the  bow-windows  of  clubs  (for  such  young  Eto- 
nians by  time  l)ccome)  are  not  generally  remarkable  for  a taste 
for  yEsehylus.*  You  do  not  hear  much  poetry  in  Westminster 
Hall,  or  I believe  at  the  l)ar-tables  afterwards;  and  if  occa- 
sional! v,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  Sir  Robert  Peel  lets  off  a 
(luotation  — a [)Ocket-pistol  wadded  with  a leaf  torn  out  of 
Horace  — dc[)eiul  on  it  it  is  011I3'  to  astonish  the  countiy  gen- 
tlemen who  don’t  understand  him  : and  it  is  my  firm  conviction 
that  Sir  Robert  no  more  cares  for  [)oetiy  than  you  or  I do. 

Such  thoughts  would  suggest  themselves  to  a man  who  has 
had  the  benefit  of  what  is  called  an  education  at  a public  school 
in  England,  when  he  sees  seventy  lads  from  all  parts  of  the 
empire  learning  what  his  Latin  poets  and  [)hilosophers  have 
informed  him  is  the  best  of  all  pursuits,  — finds  them  educated 
at  one-twentieth  part  of  the  cost  which  has  been  bestowed  on 
his  own  [)recious  person  ; orderly  without  the  necessity  of  sub- 
mitting to  degrading  personal  punishment ; 3'oung,  and  full  of 

* And  tlien,  linw  much  Latin  and  Greek  does  the  public  school-boy 
know  ? Also,  does  he  know  anythin^:  else,  and  wdiat  ? Is  it  history,  or 
geography,  or  niatheniatics,  or  divinity  ? 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


295 


health  and  blood,  though  vice  is  unknown  among  them  ; and 
brought  up  decently  and  honestH  to  know  the  things  which  it 
is  good  for  them  in  their  profession  to  know.  So  it  is,  how- 
ever ; all  the  world  is  improving  exce[)t  the  gentlemen.  There 
are  at  this  [)resent  writing  (ive  hundred  boys  at  Eton,  kicked, 
and  licked,  and  bullied,  by  another  hundred  — scrubbing  shoes, 
running  errands,  making  false  concords,  and  (as  if  that  were  a 
natural  consequence!)  i)utting  their  [)osteriors  on  a block  for 
Dr.  llawtrey  to  lash  at;  and  still  calling  it  education.  They 
are  proud  of  it  — good  heavens  ! — absolutely  vain  of  it ; as 
wliat  dull  barbarians  are  not  [)roud  of  their  dulness  and  bar- 
!)arism?  The}'  call  it  the  good  old  English  system:  nothing 
like  classics,  says  Sir  John,  to  give  a boy  a taste,  you  know, 
and  a habit  of  reading  — (Sir  John,  who  reads  the  “ Racing 
Calendar,”  and  belongs  to  a race  of  men  ol’  all  the  world  the 
least  given  to  reading,) — it’s  the  good  old  English  system; 
ever}'  l>oy  fights  for  himsell* — hardens  ’em,  eh.  Jack?  Jack 
grins,  and  helps  himself  to  another  glass  of  claret,  and  pres- 
ently tells  you  how  Tibbs  and  IMillcr  fought  for  an  hour  and 
twenty  minutes  “ like  good  uns.”  . . . Let  us  come  to  an  end. 
however,  of  this  moralizing;  the  car-driver  has  brought  the  old 
raw-shouldered  horse  out  of  the  stable,  and  says  it  is  time  to 
be  off  again. 

Before  quitting  Templemoylc,  one  thing  more  may  be  said 
in  its  favor.  It  is  one  of  the  very  few  public  establishments  in 
Ireland  where  pupils  of  the  two  religious  denominations  arc 
received,  and  where  no  religious  disputes  have  taken  place. 
The  pupils  are  called  upon,  morning  and  evening,  to  sa}'  their 
prayers  private!}'.  On  Sunday,  each  division,  Presbyterian, 
Roman  Catholic,  and  Episcopalian,  is  marched  to  its  proper 
place  of  worship.  The  pastors  of  each  sect  may  visit  their 
young  hock  when  so  inclined  ; and  the  lads  devote  the  Sabbath 
evening  to  reading  the  books  pointed  out  to  them  by  their 
clergymen. 

Would  not  the  Agricultural  Society  of  Ireland,  of  the  suc- 
cess'of  whose  peaceful  labors  for  the  national  prosperity  ever} 
Irish  newspaper  I read  brings  some  new  indication,  do  well  to 
sliow  some  mark  of  its  sympathy  for  this  excellent  institution 
of  Templemoylc?  A silver  medal  given  by  the  Society  to  the 
most  deserving  pupil  of  the  year,  would  be  a great  object  of 
emulation  amongst  the  young  men  educated  at  the  place,  and 
would  be  almost  a certain  passport  for  the  winner  in  seeking 
for  a situation  in  after  life.  I do  not  know  if  similar  semi- 
naries exist  in  England.  Other  seminaries  of  o.  bke  nature 


290 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


have  been  tried  in  this  conntiy,  and  have  failed:  but  English 
country  gentlemen  cannot,  I should  think,  find  a better  object 
of  their  attention  than  this  school ; and  our  farmers  would 
sureh'  find  such  establishments  of  great  benefit  to  them  : where 
their  children  might  procure  a sound  literaiy  education  at  a 
small  charge,  and  at  the  same  time  be  made  acquainted  with 
tlie  latest  improvements  in  their  profession.  I can’t  help  sav- 
ing here,  once  more,  what  I have  said  apropos  of  the  excellent 
school  at  Dundalk,  and  begging  the  English  middle  classes  to 
think  of  the  subject.  If  Government  will  not  act  (upon  what 
never  can  be  elfectual,  perhaps,  until  it  become  a national 
measure),  let  small  communities  act  for  themselves,  and  trades- 
men and  the  middle  classes  set  up  cheap  proprietary  schools. 
Will  country  newspaper  editors,  into  whose  hands  this  book 
may  fall,  be  kind  enough  to  speak  upon  this  hint,  and  extraet 
the  tables  of  the  Templemoyle  and  Dundalk  establishments,  to 
show  how,  and  with  what  small  means,  boj's  may  be  well, 
soundly,  and  hnmanel}'  educated — not  brutally,  as  some  of  us 
have  been,  under  the  bitter  fagging  and  the  shameful  rod.  It 
is  no  [)lea  for  the  barbarity  that  use  has  made  us  accustomed  to 
it ; and  in  seeing  these  institutions  for  humble  lads,  where  the 
system  taught  is  at  once  usebd,  iiianH,  and  kindl^q  and  think- 
ing of  what  I had  undergone  in  iny  own  youtli,  — of  the  frivo- 
lous monkish  trilling  in  whicli  it  was  wasted,  of  the  brutal 
tyranny  to  which  it  was  sulijected,  — I could  not  look  at  the 
lads  but  with  a sort  of  envy  : please  God,  their  lot  will  be 
shared  by  thousands  of  their  eciuals  and  their  betters  before 
long ! 

It  was  a proud  da}’  for  Dundalk,  Mr.  Thackeray  well  said, 
when,  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  vacations  there,  fourteen  Eng- 
lish boys,  and  an  Englishman  with  his  little  son  in  his  hand, 
landed  from  the  Liver[)ool  packet,  and,  walking  through  the 
streets  of  the  town,  went  into  the  school-house  quite  happy. 
That  was  a proud  day  iu  truth  for  a distant  Irish  town,  and  I 
can’t  hel[)  saying  that  1 grudge  tliem  the  cause  of  their  pride 
soimovhat.  Why  should  there  not  be  schools  in  England  as 
good,  and  as  cheap,  and  as  haiipy? 

With  this,  shaking  jMr.  Campbell  gratefully  by  the  hand, 
and  begging  all  English  tourists  to  go  and  visit  his  establish- 
ment, we  trotted  off  for  Londonderry,  leaving  at  about  a mile’s 
distance  from  the  town,  and  at  the  pretty  lodge  of  Saint 
Cohnnb’s,  a letter,  which  was  the  cause  of  much  delightful 
hospitality. 

Saint  Colli  mb’s  Chapel,  the  walls  of  which  still  stand  pictu- 


THE  mrsH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


297 


resqiiel}’  in  Sir  George  Hill’s  park,  and  from  which  that  gentle- 
man’s seat  takes  its  name,  was  here  since  the  sixth  century. 
It  is  but  fair  to  give  precedence  to  the  mention  of  the  old 
abbey,  which  was  the  father,  as  it  would  seem,  of  the  town. 
The  approach  to  tlie  latter  from  three  quarters,  certainh’,  by 
which  various  avenues  1 had  occasion  to  see  it,  is  always  noble. 
AVe  had  seen  the  spire  of  the  cathedral  iieering  over  the  hills 
for  four  miles  on  our  way;  it  stands,  a stalwart  and  handsome 
building,  iqion  an  emiiumcc,  round  which  the  old-fashioned 
stout  red  houses  of  tlie  town  cluster,  girt  in  with  the  ramparts 
and  walls  that  kc[)t  out  James’s  soldiers  of  old.  Quays,  fac- 
tories, huge  red  warehouses,  have  grown  round  this  famous  old 
barrier,  and  now  stretch  along  the  river.  A couple  of  large 
steamers  and  oilier  craft  lay  within  the  bridge  ; and,  as  we 
passed  over  that  stout  wooden  edilice,  stretching  eleven  hun- 
dred feet  across  the  noble  ex[)anse  of  the  Foyle,  we  heard 
along  the  quays  a great  thundering  and  clattering  of  iron-work 
in  an  enormous  steam  frigate  which  has  been  built  in  Derry, 
and  seems  to  lie  alongside  a whole  street  of  houses.  The 
suburb,  too,  through  which  we  [lassed  was  bustling  and  com- 
fortable ; and  the  view  was  not  only  pleasing  from  its  natural 
beauties,  but  has  a manly,  thriving,  honest  air  of  iirosperit}^ 
which  is  no  bad  feature,  surely,  for  a landscape. 

Nor  does  the  town  itself,  as  one  enters  it,  belie,  as  many  other 
Irish  towns  do,  its  first  nourishing  look.  It  is  not  s})lendid, 
but  comfortable  ; a brisk  movement  in  the  streets  : good  down- 
right sho[)S,  without  particularly  grand  titles ; few  beggars. 
Nor  have  the  common  people,  as  they  address  you,  that  eager 
smile, — -that  manner  of  compound  fawning  and  swaggering, 
which  an  Pbiglishman  finds  in  the  townspeople  of  the  West  and 
South.  As  in  the  North  of  England,  too,  when  compared  with 
other  districts,  the  people  are  greatly  more  familiar,  though  by 
no  means  disrespectful  to  the  stranger. 

On  the  other  hand,  after  such  a commerce  as  a traveller  has 
with  the  race  of  waiters,  postboy’s,  porters,  and  the  like  (and 
it  may  be  that  the  vast  race  of  postboys,  &c.,  whom  I did  not 
see  in  the  North,  are  quite  unlike  those  unlucky  specimens 
with  whom  I came  in  contact),  I was  struck  by  their  excessive 
greediness  after  the  traA^eller’s  gratuities,  and  their  fierce  dis- 
satisfaction if  not  sufficiently  rcAvarded.  To  the  gentlemau 
who  brushed  my  clothes  at  the  comfortable  hotel  at  Belfast, 
and  carried  m3’  bags  to  the  coach,  I tendered  the  sum  of  two 
shillings,  which  seemed  to  me  quite  a sufficient  reward  for  his 
services  : he  battled  and  brawled  with  me  fm-  more,  and  got  it 


298 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


too ; for  a street-dispute  with  a porter  calls  together  a number 
of  delighted  In'standers,  whose  remarks  and  company  are  by  no 
means  agreeable  to  a solitaiy  gentleman.  Then,  again,  there 
was  the  famous  case  of  Boots  of  Ball}xastle,  which,  being  upon 
the  subject,  I may  as  well  mention  here  : Boots  of  Ball3'castle, 
that  romantic  little  village  near  the  Giant’s  Causeway,  had 
cleaned  a pair  of  shoes  for  me  certainl}^  but  declined  either 
to  brush  my  clothes,  or  to  cany  down  m3"  two  carpet-bags  to 
the  car ; leaving  me  to  perform  those  offices  for  m3’self,  which 
I did  : and  indeed  the3’  were  not  very  difficult.  But  immedi- 
atel3'  I was  seated  on  the  car,  Mr.  Boots  stepped  forward  and 
wrapped  a mackintosh  veiy  consideratel3"  round  me,  and  begged 
me  at  tlie  same  time  to  remember  him.” 

There  wms  an  old  beggar-woman  standing  b3",  to  whom  I liad 
a desire  to  present  a pcniy' ; and  having  no  coin  of  that  value, 
I begged  Mr.  Boots,  out  of  a sixpence  which  I tendered  to 
him,  to  subtract  a peniy",  and  present  it  to  the  old  lady  in 
question.  Mr.  Boots  took  the  mone3’,  looked  at  me,  and  his 
countenance,  not  naturalh'  good-humored^  assumed  an  expres- 
sion of  the  most  indignant  contempt  and  hatred  as  he  said, 
“ I’m  thinking  Tve  no  call  to  give  m3"  raonc3"  awa3^  Sixpence 
is  my  right  for  what  I’ve  done.” 

“ Sir,”  says  I,  3"Ou  must  remember  that  3-011  did  but  black 
one  pair  of  shoes,  and  that  3-011  blacked  them  very  badl3-  too.” 

“ Sixpence  is  1113-  right,”  says  Boots;  “ a gentleman  would 
give  me  sixpence  ! ” and  thougli  I represented  to  him  that  a 
l>air  of  shoes  might  be  blacked  in  a minute — that  fivepence 
a minute  was  not  usual  wages  in  the  countiy  — that  maiy" 
gentlemen,  half-pay  officers,  brielless  barristers,  unfortunate 
literary  gentlemen,  would  gladly  black  twelve  pairs  of  shoes  per 
diem  if  rewarded  with  five  shillings  for  so  doing,  there  was  no 
means  of  convincing  Mr  Boots.  I then  demanded  back  the 
sixpence,  which  pro[)osal,  however,  he  declined,  saying,  after  a 
struggle,  he  would  give  the  money,  but  a gentleman  would 
have  given  sixpence  : and  so  left  me  with  furious  rage  and 
contempt. 

As  lor  the  cit3'  of  Derry,  a carman  who  drove  me  one  mile 
out  to  dinner  at  a gentleman’s  house,  where  he  himself  was 
provided  with  a comfortable  meal,  was  dissatisfied  with  eigh- 
teenpence,  vowing  that  a dinner  job  ” was  always  paid  half  a 
crown,  and  not  only  asserted  this,  l)ut  continued  to  assert  it  for 
a quarter  of  an  hour  with  the  most  noble  though  unsuccessful 
perseverance.  A second  car-bov,  to  whom  I gave  a shilling  for 
a drive  of  two  miles  altogether,  attacked  me  because  I gave  the 


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299 


other  bo3"  eigliteciipence  ; and  the  porter  who  brought  n\y  bags 
fifty  3'ards  from  the  coaeli,  entertained  me  with  a dialogue  that 
lasted  at  least  a couple  of  minutes,  and  said,  ^ I should  have  had 
sixpence  for  carrying  one  of  ’em.” 

For  the  ear  which  carried  me  two  miles  the  landlord  of  the 
inn  made  me  pay  the  sum  of  five  shillings.  Me  is  a godly  land- 
lord, has  Riblcs  in  the  coffee-room,  the  di'awing-room,  and  every 
bedroom  in  the  house,  with  this  inscription  — 

UT  MIGRATURUS  II  ABIT  A. 

THE  traveller’s  TRUE  REFUGE. 

Jones’s  Hotel,  Londonderry. 

This  pious  double  or  triple  entendre,  the  reader  will,  no 
doubt,  admire  — the  first  simile  establishing  the  resemblance 
between  this  life  and  an  inn  ; the  second  allegoiy  showing  that 
the  inn  and  the  Rible  are  both  the  traveller’s  refuge. 

. In  life  we  are  in  death  — the  hotel  in  question  is  about  as 
gay  as  a family  vault : a severe  (igure  of  a landlord,  in  seedy 
black,  is  occasionally  seen  in  the  dark  passages  or  on  the 
creaking  old  stairs  of  the  black  inn.  He  does  not  bow  to  3’ou 

— veiT  few  landlords  in  Ireland  condescend  to  acknowledge 
their  guests  — he  only  warns  you  : — a silent  solemn  gentleman 
who  looks  to  be  something  between  a clergyman  and  a sexton 

— '‘lit  migraturus  habita  ! ” — the  "migraturus”  was  avast 
comfort  in  the  clause. 

It  must,  however,  be  said,  for  the  consolation  of  future  trav- 
ellers, that  when  at  evening,  in  the  old  lonely  parlor  of  the 
inn,  tlie  great  gaunt  fireplace  is  filled  with  coals,  two  dreary 
funereal  candles  and  sticks  glimmering  upon  the  old  fashioned 
round  table,  the  rain  pattering  fiercely  without,  the  wind  roar- 
ing and  thum[)ing  in  the  streets,  this  worth}’  gentleman  can  pro- 
duce a i)int  of  port-wine  for  the  use  of  his  migratory  guest, 
which  causes  the  latter  to  be  almost  reconciled,  to  the  cemetery 
in  which  he  is  resting  himself,  and  he  finds  himself,  to  his  sur- 
prise, almost  cheerful.  There  is  a mouldy-looking  old  kitchen, 
too,  which,  strange  to  say,  sends  out  an  excellent  comfortable 
dinner,  so  that  the  sensation  of  fear  gradually  wears  off. 

As  in  Chester,  the  ramparts  of  the  town  form  a pleasant 
promenade  ; and  the  batteries,  with  a few  of  the  cannon,  are 
preserved,  with  which  the  stout  ’prentice  boys  of  Derry  beat  off 
King  James  in  ’88.  The  guns  bear  the  names  of  the  London 
Companies  — venerable  Cockney  titles  ! It  is  pleasant  for  a 


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Londoner  to  read  them,  and  see  how,  at  a pinch,  the  sturdy 
citizens  can  do  their  work. 

The  public  buildings  of  Derry  are,  I think,  among  the  best 
1 have  seen  in  Ireland ; and  the  Lunatic  As3'lum,  especially,  is 
to  be  pointed  out  as  a model  of  neatness  and  comfort.  When 
will  the  middle  classes  be  allowed  to  send  their  own  afflicted 
relatives  to  public  institutions  of  this  excellent  kind,  where 
violence  is  never  practised  — where  it  is  never  to  the  interest  of 
the  keeper  of  the  asylum  to  exaggerate  his  patient’s  malad}^  or 
to  retain  him  in  durance,  for  the  sake  of  the  enormous  sums 
which  the  sufferer’s  relatives  are  made  to  pa}^ ! The  gentry  of 
three  counties  which  contribute  to  the  Asylum  have  no  such 
resource  for  members  of  their  own  bod}-,  should  an}^  be  so 
afflicted  — the  condition  of  entering  this  admirable  as^’lum  is, 
that  the  patient  must  be  a pauper,  and  on  this  account  he  is 
supplied  with  evciy  comfort  and  the  best  curative  means,  and 
his  relations  are  in  perfect  securit}'.  Are  the  rich  in  an}'  wa}" 
so  lucky?  — and  if  not,  wly  not? 

The  rest  of  the  occurrences  at  Derry  belong,  unhappil}',  -to 
the  domain  of  private  life,  and  though  veiy  pleasant  to  recall, 
are  not  honest!}'  to  be  printed.  Otherwise,  what  popular  de- 
scrii)tions  might  be  written  of  the  hospitalities  of  St.  Columb’s, 
of  the  jovialities  of  the  mess  of  the  — th  Regiment,  of  the 
s[)eeches  made  and  the  songs  sung,  and  the  devilled  turkey  at 
twelve  o’clock,  and  the  headache  afterwards  ; all  which  events 
could  l)c  described  in  an  exceedingly  facetious  manner.  But 
these  amusements  are  to  be  met  with  in  every  other  part  of  her 
IMajcsty’s  dominions  ; and  the  only  point  which  may  be  men: 
tioned  here  as  peculiar  to  this  part  of  Ireland,  is  the  difference 
of  the  manner  of  the  gentry  to  that  in  the  South.  The  North- 
ern manner  is  far  more  Emjlish  than  that  of  the  other  provinces 
of  Ireland  — whether  it  is  better  for  being  English  is  a ques- 
tion of  taste,  of  which  an  Englishman  can  scarcely  be  a fair 
judge. 


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301 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

DUBLIN  AT  LAST. 

A WEDDTNG-PAiiTY  tliut  wciit  acT'oss  DciT}'  Bridge  to  the 
sound  of  bell  and  cannon,  had  to  lloinider  through  a thick  coat 
of  frozen  snow,  that  covei’ed  the  sliiipery  planks,  and  the  hills 
round  about  were  whitened  over  Iwthe  same  inclement  material. 
Nor  was  the  weather,  im[)lacable  towards  .voimg  lovers  and  un- 
hapj)y  Imckskin  postilions  shivering  in  white  fiivors,  at  all  more 
jjolite  towards  the  i)assengers  of  her  jMajesty’s  mail  that  runs 
from  Derry  to  Ball^  shannon. 

Hence  the  aspect  of  the  countiy  between  those  two  places 
can  only  be  described  at  the  rate  of  nine  miles  an  hour,  and 
from  such  points  of  observation  as  may  be  had  through  a coach 
window,  starred  with  ice  and  mud.  'While  horses  were  changed 
we  saw  a very  dirty  town,  called  Strabane  ; and  had  to  visit  the 
old  house  of  the  OTIonnel’s  in  Donegal  during  a quarter  of  an 
hour’s  [)ause  that  the  coach  made  there  — and  with  an  umbrella 
overliead.  The  pursuit  of  the  })icturcs(|ue  under  umbrellas  let 
us  leave  to  more  venturesome  souls  : the  tine  weather  of  the 
finest  season  known  for  many  long  years  m Ireland  was  over, 
and  I thought  with  a great  deal  of  yearning  of  Pat  the  waiter, 
at  the  Shelburne  Hotel,”  Stephen’s  Green,  Dublin,  and  the 
gas-lamps,  and  the  covered  cars,  and  the  good  dinners  to  which 
the}'  take  you. 

Farewell,  then,  O wild  Donegal ! and  ye  stern  passes 
through  which  the  astonished  traveller  windeth ! Farewell, 
Ballyshannon,  and  thy  salmon-leap,  and  thy  bar  of  sand,  over 
which  the  white  head  of  the  troubled  Atlantic  was  peeping  ! 
Likewise,  adieu  to  Lough  Erne,  and  its  numberless  green 
islands,  and  winding  river-lake,  and  wavy  fir-clad  hills  ! Good- 
by,  moreover,  neat  Enniskillen,  over  the  bridge  and  churches 
whereof  the  sun  peepeth  as  the  coach  starteth  from  the  inn  ! 
See,  how  he  shines  now  on  Lord  Belmore’s  stately  palace  and 
park,  with  gleaming  porticos  and  brilliant  grassy  chases  : now, 
behold  he  is  yet  higher  in  the  heavens,  as  the  twanging  horn 
proclaims  the  approach  to  beggarly  Cavan,  where  a beggarly 
breakfast  awaits  the  hungry  voyager. 

Snatching  up  a roll  wherewith  to  satisfy  the  pangs  of  hun- 
ger, sharpened  by  the  mockery  of  breakfast,  the  tourist  now 


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THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


hastens  in  his  arduous  course,  through  Virginia,  Kells,  Ka 
van,  Tara’s  threadbare  mountain,  and  Skreen’s  green 
hill ; da}'  darkens,  and  a hundred  thousand  lamps  twinkle  in 
the  gray  horizon  — see  above  the  darkling  trees  a stump}'  col- 
umn rise,  see  on  its  base  the  name  of  Wellington  (though  this, 
because  ’tis  night,  thou  canst  not  see),  and  cry,  “It  is  the 
Phaynix!''  — On  and  on,  across  the  iron  bridge,  and  through 
the  streets,  (dear  streets,  though  dircy,  tc  the  citizen’s  heart 
how  dear  you  be  !)  and  lo,  now,  with  a bump,  the  dirty  coach 
stops  at  the  seedy  inn,  six  ragged  povLers  battle  for  the  bags, 
six  wheedling  carmen  recommend  their  cars,  and  (giving  first 
the  coachman  eightcenpence)  the  Cockney  says,  “ Drive,  car- 
boy, to  the  ‘ Shelburne.’  ” 

And  so  having  reached  Dublin,  it  becomes  necessary  to  cur- 
tail the  oiiservations  which  were  to  be  made  upon  that  city ; 
which  surely  ought  to  have  a volume  to  itself:  the  humors  of 
Dublin  at  least  require  so  much  space.  For  instance,  there 
was  the  dinner  at  the  Kildare  Street  Club,  or  the  Hotel  oppo- 
site, — the  dinner  in  Trinity  College  Hall,  — that  at  Mr.  , 

the  piildishei-’s,  where  a dozen  of  the  literary  men  of  Ireland 
were  assembled,  — and  those  (say  lifty)  with  Harry  Lorrequer 
liiinself,  at  his  mansion  of  Templeogue.  What  a favorable  op- 
portunity to  discourse  iqion  the  [leculiarities  of  lilsli  charagter ! 
to  d(‘scribe  men  of  letters,  of  fashior«,  and  university  dons! 

Sketches  of  these  personages  may  be  prei)ared,  and  sent 
over,  p('iliaps,  in  conhdc'uce  to  Mrs.  Sigom-ney  in  America  — 
(who  will  of  course  not  print  them;  — but  the  English  habit 
does  not  allow  of  these  ha[)[)v  communications  between  writers 
and  the  public  ; and  the  author  who  v/isl’.es  to  dine  again  at  his 
IViend’s  cost,  must  needs  have  a care  how  he  puts  him  in  [)i*int. 

Sullice  it  to  say,  that  at  Kildare  Street  we  had  white  neck- 
cloths, black  waiters,  wax-candles,  and  some  of  the  best  wine 

in  Euro[)e  ; at  Mr.  , the  [)ublisher’r,,  wax-candles  and  soim* 

ol‘  the  best  wine  in  Europe;  at  IMr.  Cev^r’s,  wax-candles,  and 
some  ol*  the  best  wine  in  Eui'0[)e  ; at  Trinity  College  — but 
there  is  no  need  to  nuMition  what  took  place  at  Trinity  College  ; 
Ibr  on  returning  to  London,  and  recounting  the  circumstances 
of  lh(‘  reiiast,  my  IViend  1> , a IMastrr  of  Arts  of  that  uni- 

versity, solemnly  declared  the  thing  was  impossible : — no 
stranger  could  dine  at  d’rinity  College  ; it  was  too  great  a privi- 
lege— in  a word,  he  would  not  believe  the  story,  nor  will  he  to 
this  day  ; and  why,  therefore,  tell  it  in  \ain? 

I am  sure  if  the  Fellows  of  Colleges  in  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge were  told  that  the  Fellows  of  T.  C.  D.  only  drink  beer 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


ono 

oUo 

at  dinner,  the}’  would  not  believe  that.  Such,  however,  was  the 
fact : or  may  be  i^  was  a dream,  which  was  followed  by  another 
dream  of  about  four-and-twenU’  gentlemen  seated  round  a com- 
mon-room table  after  dinner ; and,  bv  a subsequent  vision  of  a 
tray  of  oysters  in  the  apartments  of  a tutor  of  the  universiUy 
sometime  before  midnight.  Did  we  swallow  them  or  not?  — 
the  oysters  are  an  open  question. 

Of  the  Cathciic  College  of  Maynooth,  I must  likewise  speak 
briefly,  for  the  reason  that  an  accurate  description  of  that  es- 
tablishment would  be  of  necessity  so  disagreeable,  that  it  is  best 
to  pass  it  over  iji  a few  words.  An  Irish  union-house  is  a palace 
to  it.  Ruin  so  needless,  fillh  so  disgusting,  such  a look  of 
lazy  squalor,  no  Englishman  who  has  not  seen  can  conceive. 
Lecture-room  and  diiiing-hcdl,  kitchen  and  students’-room,  were 
all  tlie  same.  I shall  never  forget  the  sight  of  scores  of  shoul- 
ders of  mutton  lying  on  the  lilthy  floor  in  the  former,  or  the 
view  of  a bed  and  dressing-table  that  I saw  in  the  other.  Let 
the  next  Mavnootli  grant  include  a few  shillings’-worth  of  white- 
wash and  a few  hundredweights  of  soap  ; and  if  to  this  be 
added  a half-score  of  drill  sergeants,  to  see  that  the  students 
appear  clean  at  lecture,  and  to  teach  them  to  keep  their  heads 
up  and  to  look  people  in  the  face.  Parliament  will  introduce 
some  cheap  reforms  into  the  seminar}',  which  were  never  needed 
more  than  here.  Why  should  the  place  be  so  shamefully  ruin- 
ous and  foully  dirty?  Lime  is  cheap,  and  water  plenty  at  the 
canal  hard  by.  Why  should  a stranger,  after  a week’s  stay  in 
the  country,  be  able  to  discover  a priest  by  the  scowl  on  his 
face,  and  his  doubtful  downcast  manner?  Is  it  a point  of  dis- 
cipline that  his  reverence  should  be  made  to  look  as  ill-humored 
as  possible?  And  I hope  these  words  will  not  be  taken  hos- 
tilely.  It  would  have  been  quite  as  easy,  and  more  pleasant, 
to  say  the  contrary,  had  the  contraiy  seemed  to  me  to  have 
been  the  fact ; and  to  have  declared  that  the  priests  were  re- 
markable for  their  expression  of  candor,  and  their  college  for 
its  extreme  neatness  and  cleanliness. 

This  complaint  of  neglect  applies  to  other  public  institutions 
besides  Maynooth.  The  Mansion-house,  when  I saw  it,  was  a 
very  dingy  abode  for  the  Right  Honorable  Lord  Mayor,  and  that 
Lord  Mayor  Mr.  O’Connell.  I saw  him  in  full  council,  in  a 
brilliant  robe  of  crimson  velvet,  ornamented  with  white  satin 
bows  and  sable  collar,  in  an  enormous  cocked-hat,  like  a slice 
of  an  eclipsed  moon. 

The  Aldermen  and  Common  Council,  in  a black  oak  parlor, 
and  at  a dingy  green  table,  were  assembled  around  him,  and  a 


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THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


debate  of  thrilling  interest  to  the  town  ensued.  It  related,  1 
tliink,  to  water-pipes ; the  great  man  did  not  speak  publicly, 
but  was  occupied  chiefly  at  the  end  of  the  table,  giving  audi- 
ences to  at  least  a score  of  clients  and  petitioners. 

The  next  day  I saw  him  in  the  famous  Corn  Exchange.  The 
building  without  has  a substantial  look,  but  the  hall  within  is 
rude,  dirty,  and  ill-kept.  Hundreds  of  persons  were  assembled 
in  the  black,  steaming  place  ; no  inconsiderable  share  of  frieze- 
coats  were  among  them  ; and  many  small  Repealers,  who  could 
but  latel}’  have  assumed  their  breeches,  ragged  as  they  were. 
These  kept  up  a great  chorus  of  shouting,  and  “hear,  hear!” 
at  every  pause  in  the  great  Repealer’s  address.  Mr.  O’Connell 
was  reading  a report  Irom  his  Repeal- wardens ; which  proved 
tliat  when  Repeal  took  place,  commerce  and  prosperit}’  would 
instantly  flow  into  the  country  ; its  innumerable  harbors  would 
be  filled  with  countless  ships,  its  immense  water-power  would 
be  directed  to  the  turning  of  myriads  of  mills ; its  vast  ener- 
gies and  resources  brought  into  full  action.  At  the  end  of  the 
re[)ort,  three  cheers  were  given  for  Repeal,  and  in  the  midst 
of  a great  shouting  Mr.  O’Connell  leaves  the  room. 

“ Mr.  Quiglan,  Mr.  Quigian  ! ” roars  an  active  aide-de-camp 
to  the  door-keeper,  “ a covered  kyar  for  the  Lard  Muyre.”  The 
covered  car  came  ; 1 saw  his  lordship  get  into  it.  Next  day 
he  was  Lord  Mayor  no  longer ; but  Alderman  O’Connell  in  his 
state-coach,  with  the  handsome  grab’s  whose  manes  were  tied 
u[)  with  green  ribbon,  following  the  new  Lord  Ma}’or  to  the 
rigiit  honorable  inauguration.  Javelin  men,  city  marshals 
(looking  like  military  undertakers),  private  carriages,  glass 
coaches,  cars,  covered  and  uncovered,  and  thousands  of  jell- 
ing ragamuffins,  formed  the  civic  procession  of  that  faded, 
worn-out,  insolvent  old  Dublin  Corporation. 

The  walls  of  this  city  had  been  placarded  with  huge  notices 
to  the  public,  that  O’Connell’s  rent-da}^  was  at  hand  ; and  I 
went  round  to  all  the  chapels  in  town  on  that  Sunday  (not  a 
little  to  the  scandal  of  some  Protestant  friends),  to  see  the 
l)opular  behavior.  Every  door  was  barred,  of  course,  with 
})late-holders  ; and  heaps  of  pence  at  the  humble  entrances,  and 
bank-notes  at  the  front  gates,  told  the  willingness  of  the  people 
to  reward  their  champion.  The  car-boy  who  drove  me  had 
paid  his  little  tribute  of  fourpence  at  morning  mass  ; the  waiter 
who  brought  m3'  breakfast  had  added  to  the  national  subscrip- 
tion with  his  humble  shilling  ; and  the  Catholic  gentleman  with 
whom  I dined,  and  between  whom  and  Mr.  O’Connell  there  is 
DO  great  love  lost,  pays  his  annual  donation,  out  of  gratitude 


THE  IlllSll  SKETCH  BOOK. 


305 


for  old  services,  and  to  the  man  who  won  Catholic  Emancipa- 
tion for  Ireland.  The  piety  of  the  iieople  at  the  chapels  is  a 
sight,  too,  always  well  worthy  to  behold.  Nor  indeed  is  this 
religions  fervor  less  in  the  Ih'otestant  places  of  worship  : the 
wai  inth  Jind  attention  of  the  congregation,  the  enthusiasm  with 
wliich  hymns  are  sung  and  res[)onses  uttered,  contrasts  curi- 
ously with  the  cool  Ibi  inality  ol‘  worshi[)[)ei*s  at  home. 

d’he  service  at  St.  I’atrick’s  is  linely  snug;  and  the  shame- 
less English  custom  of  retreating  alter  the  anthem,  is  propcrl}' 
j)rev(‘nU‘d  by  locking  the  gates,  and  having  the  music  after  the 
sermon.  The  interior  of  the  cathedi’al  itself,  however,  to  an 
Engiishman  who  has  seen  the  neat  and  beautiful  edifices  of  his 
own  country,  will  be  anything  but  an  object  of  admiration.  The 
greater  part  of  the  huge  old  building  is  sutfered  to  remain  in 
gaunt  decay,  and  with  its  stalls  of  sham  Gothic,  and  the  tawdiy 
old  rags  and  gimcracks  of  the  most  illustrious  order  of  Saint 
Ikiti’ick,”  (whose  [)asteboard  helmets,  and  calico  banners,  and 
lath  swords,  well  characterize  the  humbug  of  chivalry  which 
they  are  made  to  re[)resent, ) looks  like  a theatre  behind  the 
scenes.  Paddy’s  Opera,”  however,  is  a noble  |)erformance  ; 
and  the  Englishman  may  here  listen  to  a half-hour  sermon,  and 
in  the  anthem  to  a bass  singer  whose  voice  is  one  of  the  finest 
ever  heard. 

T’he  Drama  does  not  flourish  much  more  in  Dublin  than  in 
any  other  part  of  the  country.  Operatic  stars  make  their  ap- 
])earance  occasionally,  and  managers  lose  mone}\  I was  at  a 
tine  concert,  at  which  Lablache  and  others  performed,  where 
there  were  not  a hundred  people  in  the  pit  of  the  pretty  theatre, 
and  where  the  only  encore  given  was  to  a 3’oung  woman  in 
ringlets  and  yellow  satin,  who  stepped  forward  and  sang, 
“Coming  through  the  rye,”  or  some  other  scientific  composi- 
tion, in  an  exceedingly  small  voice.  On  the  nights  when  the 
i-egular  drama  was  enacted,  the  audience  was  still  smaller.  The 
theatre  of  Fishamble  Street  was  given  up  to  the  performances  of 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Ctregg  and  his  Protestant  company,  whose  soirees 
1 did  not  attend  ; and,  at  the  Abbey  Street  Theatre,  whither  I 
went  in  order  to  see,  if  possible,  some  specimens  of  the  national 
humor,  I found  a compan}'  of  English  people  ranting  through  a 
melodrama,  the  traged}^  whereof  was  the  only  laughable  thing 
to  be  witnessed. 

Humbler  popular  recreations  may  be  seen  ly  the  curious. 
One  night  I paid  twopence  to  see  a puppet-show  — such  an 
entertainment  as  ma}'  have  been  popular  a hundred  and  thirty 
years  ago,  and  is  described  in  the  Spectator.  But  the  company 

2Q 


306 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


here  assembled  were  not,  it  scarcel}’  need  be  said,  of  the 
genteel  sort.  There  were  a score  of  boys,  however,  and  a 
dozen  of  laboring  men,  who  were  quite  happ}’  and  contented 
with  the  piece  performed,  and  loiidl}’  applauded.  Then  in  pass- 
ing homewards  of  a night,  you  hear,  at  the  humble  public-houses, 
the  sound  of  many  a fiddle,  and  the  stamp  of  feet  dancing  the 
good  old  jig,  which  is  still  maintaining  a struggle  with  teetotal- 
ism,  aud,  though  vanquished  now,  may  rail}'  some  day  and 
overcome  the  enem}'.  At  Kingstown,  especiall}’,  the  old  fire- 
worshippers”  yet  seem  to  muster  pretty  strongly;  loud  is  the 
music  to  be  heard  in  the  taverns  there,  and  the  cries  of  encour- 
agement to  the  dancers. 

Of  the  numberless  amusements  that  take  place  in  the  Phay- 
it  is  not  very  necessary  to  speak.  Here  you  may  behold 
garrison  races,  and  reviews  ; lord-lieutenants  in  brown  great- 
coats ; aides-de-canq)  scani[)ering  about  like  mad  in  blue  ; fat 
colonels  roaring  “charge”  to  immense  heav}' dragoons  ; dark 
riflemen  liuiug  woods  aud  firing  ; galloping  cannoneers  banging 
aud  blazing  right  and  left.  Here  comes  his  Excellency  the 
Command(‘r-in-Chief,  with  his  huge  feathers,  and  white  hair, 
and  hooked  nose  ; and  yonder  sits  his  Excellency  the  Ambassa- 
dor from  the  republic  of  To[)inambo  in  a glass  coach,  smoking  a 
cigar.  The  honest  Dubliuites  make  a great  deal  of  such  small 
dignitaries  as  his  Excellency  of  the  glass  coach  ; you  hear 
everybody  talking  of  him,  aud  asking  which  is  he  ; and  when 
presently  one  of  Sir  Robert  PeeFs  sons  makes  his  appearance 
on  the  course,  the  public  rush  delighted  to  look  at  him. 

They  love  great  folks,  those  honest  Emerald  Islanders,  more 
intensely  than  any  people T ever  heard  of,  except  the  Ameri- 
cans. They  still  cherish  the  memory  of  the  sacred  George  IV. 
'Tlu'V  chronicle  genteel  small  beer  with  never-failing  assiduit}'. 
They  go  in  long  trains  to  a sham  court  — simpering  in  tights 
aud  bags,  with  swords  between  their  legs.  O heaven  and  earth, 
what  joy  ! Vhy  are  the  Irish  noblemen  absentees?  If  their 
lordshi[)s  like  resiiect,  where  would  the}'  get  it  so  well  as  in 
their  own  country? 

The  Irish  noblemen  are  very  likely  going  through  the  same 
delightful  routine  of  duty  liefore  tlieir  real  sovereign  — in  real 
tights  and  bag-wigs,  as  it  were,  })erforming  their  graceful  and 
lofty  duties,  and  celebrating  the  august  service  of  the  throne. 
These,  of  course,  the  truly  loyal  heart  can  only  respect : and  I 
think  a drawing-room  at  St.  James’s  the  grandest  spectacle  that 
ever  feasted  the  eye  or  exercised  the  intellect.  The  crown, 
surrounded  by  its  knights  and  nol)les,  its  priests,  its  sages,  and 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


307 


their  respective  ladies ; illustrious  foreigners,  men  learned  in 
the  law,  heroes  of  land  and  sea,  beef-eaters,  gold-sticks,  gentle- 
inen-at-arnis,  rall3’ing  round  the  throne  and  defending  it  with 
those  swords  which  never  knew  defeat  (and  would  surely,  if 
tried,  secure  victory):  these  are  sights  and  characters  which 
every  man  must  look  u[)on  with  a thrill  of  respectful  awe,  and 
count  amongst  the  glories  of  his  couulry.  What  lady  that  sees 
this  will  not  confess  that  she  reads  every  one  of  the  drawing- 
room costumes,  IVoin  IMajesty  down  to  Miss  Ann  Maria  Smith  ; 
and  all  the  names  of  the  presentations,  from  Prince  Baccabock- 
sky  (by  the  Russian  ambassador)  to  Ensign  Stubbs  on  his  ap- 
pointment? 

W e are  bound  to  read  these  accounts.  It  is  our  pride,  our 
duty  as  Britons.  But  though  one  may  honor  the  respect  of  the 
aristocrac}'  of  the  land  for  tlie  sovereign,  }'et  there  is  no  reason 
why  those  who  are  not  of  the  aristocracy  should  be  aping  their 
betters  : and  the  Dublin  Castle  business  has,  I cannot  but  think, 
a very  high-life-below^-stairs  look.  There  is  no  aristocracy  in 
Dublin.  Its  magnates  are  tradesmen  — Sir  Fiat  llaustus.  Sir 
Blacker  Dos}’,  IMr.  Serjeant  Bluebag,  or  Mr.  Counsellor  O’Fee. 
Brass  plates  are  their  titles  of  honor,  and  they  live  by  their 
])oluses  or  their  briefs.  What  call  have  these  v/orthy  people  to 
be  dangling  and  grinning  at  lord-lieutenants’  levees,  and  i>lay- 
ing  sham  aristocracy  before  a sham  sovereign?  Oh,  that  old 
humbug  of  a Castle  ! It  is  the  greatest  sham  of  all  the  shams 
in  Ireland. 

Aithougly  the  season  may  be  said  to  have  begun,  for  the 
Courts  are  0[)ened,  and  the  noblesse  de  la  robe  have  assembled, 
I do  not  think  the  genteel  quarters  of  the  towm  look  much  more 
cheerful.  They  still,  for  tlie  most  part,  w^ear  their  faded  ap- 
})carance  and  lean,  half-pay  look.  There  is  the  beggar  still 
dawalling  here  and  there.  Sounds  of  carriages  or  footmen  do 
not  deaden  the  clink  of  the  burh’  })oliceman’s  l)Oot-heels.  You 
may  see,  possibl}’,  a smutty-faced  nursemaid  leading  out  her 
little  charges  to  walk  : or  the  observer  may  catch  a glimpse  of 
Mick  the  footman  lolling  at  the  door,  and  grinning  as  he  talks 
to  some  dubious  tradesman.  Mick  and  John  are  very  different 
characters  externally  and  inw’ardly  ; — profound  essay's  (involv- 
ing the  histories  of  the  tw^o  countries  for  a thousand  years) 
might  be  written  regarding  Mick  and  John,  and  the  moral  and 
Jx>litical  influences  which  have  developed  the  flunkies  of  the  two 
nations.  The  friend,  too,  with  wdiom  Mick  talks  at  the  door  is 
a puzzle  to  a Londoner.  I have  hardly  ever  entered  a Dublin 
house  without  meeting  with  some  such  character  on  my  way  in 


308 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


or  out.  He  looks  too  shabby  for  a dim,  and  not  exactly'  ragged 
enough  for  a beggar  — a doubtful,  laz}’,  dirt}^  family  vassal  — 
a guerilla  footman.  I think  it  is  he  who  makes  a great  noise, 
and  whispering,  and  clattering,  handing  in  the  dishes  to  Mick 
from  outside  of  the  dining-room  door.  When  an  Irishman 
comes  to  London  he  brings  Erin  with  him  ; and  ten  to  one  you 
will  find  one  of  these  queer  retainers  about  his  place. 

London  one  can  onl}^  take  leave  of  by  degrees  : the  great 
town  melts  away  into  suburbs,  which  soften,  as  it  were,  the 
parting  between  the  Cockney  and  his  darling  birthplace.  But 
you  pass  from  some  of  the  stately  fine  Dublin  streets  straight 
into  the  countiy.  After  No.  4G,  Eccles  Street,  for  instance, 
potatoes  begin  at  once.  You  are  on  a wide  green  plain,  diver- 
sified by  occasional  cabbage-plots,  b}^  drying-grounds  white  with 
chemises,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  chartered  wind  is  revelling  ; 
and  though  in  the  map  some  fanciful  engineer  has  laid  down 
streets  and  squares,  they  exist  but  on  paper ; nor,  indeed,  can 
there  be  any  need  of  them  at  present,  in  a quarter  where  houses 
are  not  wanted  so  much  as  people  to  dwell  in  the  same. 

If  the  genteel  portions  of  the  town  look  to  the  full  as  melan- 
chol}’  as  they  did,  the  downright  povert}’  ceases,  I fear,  to  make 
so  strong  an  impresssion  as  it  made  four  months  ago.  Going 
over  the  same  ground  again,  places  appear  to  have  quite  a 
different  aspect;  and,  with  their  strangeness,  poverty  and 
misery  have  lost  much  of  their  tei’ror.  The  people,  though 
dii-tier  aiid  more  ragged,  seem  certainly  haiipier  than  those  in 
London. 

Near  to  the  King’s  Court,  for  instance  (a  noble  building,  as 
are  almost  all  the  public  edifices  of  the  city),  is  a straggling 
green  suburb,  containing  numberless  little  shabby,  patched, 
broken-windowed  huts,  with  ilckety  gardens  dotted  with  rags 
that  have  been  washed,  and  children  that  have  not ; and  thronged 
with  all  sorts  of  ragged  inhabitants.  Near  to  the  suburb  in  the 
town,  is  a dingy  old  mysterious  district,  called  Stoneybatter, 
where  some  houses  have  been  allowed  to  reach  an  old  age,  ex- 
traordinary in  this  country  of  premature  ruin,  and  look  as  if 
the}’  had  been  built  some  sixscoi’e  years  since.  In  these  and 
the  neighboring  tenements,  not  so  old,  but  equally  ruinous  and 
mouldy,  there  is  a sort  of  vermin  swarm  of  humanity;  dirty 
faces  at  all  the  dirty  windows  ; children  on  all  the  broken  steps  ; 
smutty  slipshod  women  clacking  and  bustling  about,  and  old 
men  dawdling.  Well,  only  paint  and  prop  the  tumbling  gates 
and  huts  in  the  suburb,  and  fimcy  the  Stoneybatterites  clean, 
and  you  would  have  rather  a gay  and  agreeable  picture  of 


THE  IllTSil  SKETCH  BOOK. 


800 


liiinifin  life  — of  work-people  and  their  families  reposing  after 
their  labors.  The}"  are  all  happy,  and  sober,  and  kind-hearted, 

• — they  seem  kind,  and  play  with  the  children  — the  young 
women  having  a gay  good-natured  joke  for  the  passer-by  ; the 
old  seemingly  contented,  and  buzzing  to  one  another.  It  is 
only  the  costume,  as  it  were,  that  has  frightened  the  stranger, 
and  made  him  fancy  that  people  so  ragged  must  be  unhappy. 
Observation  grows  used  to  the  rags  as  much  as  the  people  do, 
and  my  impression  of  the  walk  through  this  district,  on  a sun- 
shiny, clear,  autumn  evening,  is  that  of  a fete.'  1 am  almost 
ashamed  it  should  be  so. 

Near  to  Stoneybatter  lies  a group  of  huge  gloomy  edihccs  — 
an  hospital,  a penitentiary,  a mad-house,  and  a poor-house.  I 
visited  the  latter  of  these,  the  North  Dublin  Union-house,  an 
enormous  establishment,  which  accommodates  two  thousand 
beggars.  Like  all  the  public  institutions  of  the  country,  it 
seems  to  be  well  conducted,  and  is  a vast,  orderly,  and  cleanly 
place,  wherein  the  prisoners  are  better  clothed,  better  fed,  and 
better  housed  than  they  can  hope  to  be  when  at  liberty.  We 
were  taken  into  all  the  wards  in  due  order : the  schools  and 
nursery  lor  the  children  ; the  dining-rooms,  day-rooms,  &c.,  of 
the  men  and  women.  Each  division  is  so  accommodated,  as 
also  with  a large  court  or  ground  to  walk  and  exercise  in. 

Among  the  men,  there  are  very  few  able-bodied  : the  most 
of  them,  the  keeper  said,  having  gone  out  for  the  harvest-time, 
or  as  soon  as  the  potatoes  came  in.  If  they  go  out,  they  can- 
not return  before  the  expiration  of  a month : the  guardians 
have  been  obliged  to  establish  this  prohibition,  lest  the  persons 
requiring  relief  should  go  in  and  out  too  frequently.  The  old 
men  were  assembled  in  considerable  numbers  in  a long  day- 
room  that  is  comfortable  and  warm.  Some  of  them  were  pick- 
ing oakum  by  way  of  employment,  but  most  of  them  were  past 
work  ; all  such  inmates  of  the  house  as  are  able-bodied  being 
occupied  upon  the  premises.  Their  hall  was  airy  and  as  clean 
as  brush  and  water  could  make  it : the  men  equally  clean,  and 
their  gray  jackets  and  Scotch  caps  stout  and  warm.  Thence 
we  were  led,  with  a sort  of  satisfaction,  by  the  guardian,  to 
the  kitchen  — a large  room,  at  the  end  of  which  might  be  seen 
certain  coppers,  emitting,  it  must  be  owned,  a very  faint  in- 
hospitable smell.  It  was  Friday,  and  rice-milk  is  the  food  on 
that  day,  each  man  being  served  with  a pint-canful,  of  which 
cans  a great  number  stood  smoking  upon  stretchers  — the 
platters  were  laid,  each  with  its  portion  of  salt,  in  the  large 
clean  dining-room  hard  by.  “ Look  at  that  rice,”  said  the 


310 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


keeper,  taking  up  a bit;  “try  it,  sir,  it’s  delicious.”  I’m  sure 
1 hope  it  is. 

The  old  women’s  room  was  crowded  with,  I should  think, 
at  least  four  hundred  old  ladies  — neat  and  nice,  in  white 
clothes  and  caps  — sitting  demurely  on  benches,  doing  nothing 
i'or  the  most  part;  but  some  emplo}'ed,  like  the  old  men,  in 
iiddling  with  the  oakum.  There’s  tobacco  here,”  says  the 
giiardian  in  a loud  voice  ; “ who’s  smoking  tobacco?”  “ Faith, 
and  I wish  dere  was  some  tabaccy  here,”  sa^^s  one  old  lady, 
‘•and  my  service  to  3’ou,  Mr.  Leaiy,  and  I hope  one  of  the 
gentlemen  has  a snuff-box,  and  a pinch  for  a poor  old.  woman.” 
Hut  we  had  no  boxes  ; and  if  any  person  who  reads  this  visit, 
goes  to  a poor-house  or  a lunatic  asylum,  let  him  cany  a box, 
if  for  that  da\’  only  — a pinch  is  like  Dives’s  drop  of  water  to 
those  poor  limboed  souls.  Some  of  the  poor  old  creatures  be- 
gan to  stand  up  as  we  came  in  — I can’t  say  how  painful  such 
an  honor  seemed  to  me. 

There  was  a separate  room  for  the  able-bodied  females ; and 
the  place  and  courts  were  full  of  stout,  red-cheeked,  bouncing 
women.  If  the  old  ladies  looked  respectable,  1 cannot  sa}’  the 
young  ones  were  particularly  good-looking ; tliere  were  some 
ilogarthian  faces  amongst  them  — si}',  leering,  and  hideous.  I 
fancied  I could  see  only  too  well  what  these  girls  had  been.  Is 
it  charitable  or  not  to  hope  that  such  bad  faces  could  only  be- 
long to  bad  women  ? 

Here,  sir,  is  tlie  nursery,”  said  the  guide,  flinging  open 
tlie  door  of  a long  room.  There  may  have  been  eighty 
babies  in  it,  with  as  many  nurses  and  mothers.  Close  to  the 
door  sat  one  with  as  l)eautifiil  a face  as  I almost  ever  saw : she 
liad  at  her  breast  a very  sickly  and  puny  child,  and  looked  up, 
as  we  entei’cd,  with  a [>air  of  angelical  eyes,  and  a face  that 
Mi‘.  Eastlake  could  paint — a lace  that  had  been  angelical  that 
is  ; for  tlierc  was  the  snow  still,  as  it  were,  but  with  the  foot- 
mark on  it.  I asked  her  how  old  she  was  — she  did  not  know. 
She  could  not  have  been  more  than  fifteen  years,  the  poor  child. 
She  said  she  had  been  a servant — and  there  was  no  need  of 
asking  anything  more  about  her  story.  I saw  her  grinning  at 
one  of  her  comrades  as  we  went  out  of  the  room ; her  face  did 
not  look  angelical  then.  Ah,  youiig  master  or  old,  young  or 
old  villain,  who  did  tliis  ! — have  you  not  enough  wickedness 
of  your  own  to  answer  for,  that  you  must  take  another’s  sins 
upon  your  shoulders  ; and  be  this  wretched  child’s  sponsor  in 
crime?  .... 

But  this  chapter  must  be  made  as  short  as  possible  : and  so 


THE  HUSH  SKETCH  HOOK. 


311 


I will  not  sa}^  how  much  prouder  Mr.  Leary,  the  keeper,  was 
of  his  fat  pigs  than  of  his  i)au[)crs  — how  he  pointed  us  out  the 
burial-ground  of  the  fainih^  of  the  poor  — their  colfins  were 
(juite  visible  through  the  niggardly  mould  ; and  the  children 
might  pecg)  at  their  fathers  over  the  burial-ground-play-ground- 
wall — nor  how  we  went  to  see  the  Linen  Hall  of  Dublin  — 
that  huge,  useless,  lonel^g  decayed  place,  in  the  vast  windy 
solitudes  of  which  stands  the  simpering  statue  of  George  IV., 
pointing  to  some  bales  ol‘  shirting,  over  which  he  is  supposed 
to  extend  his  august  protection. 

The  cheers  of  the  rabble  hailing  the  new  Lord  Ma3^or  were 
the  last  sounds  that  I heard  in  l)ul)lin  : and  1 quitted  the  kind 
Iriends  1 had  made  there  with  the  sincerest  regret.  As  for 
forming  an  opinion  of  Ireland,”  such  as  is  occasional!}'  asked 
from  a traveller  on  his  return  — that  is  as  dillicult  an  opinion 
to  form  as  to  express  ; and  the  puzzle  which  has  perplexed  the 
gravest  and  wisest,  may  be  confessed  by  a humble  writer  of 
light  literature,  whose  aim  it  only  was  to  look  at  the  manners 
and  the  scenery  of  the  country,  and  who  does  not  venture  to 
meddle  with  questions  of  more  serious  import. 

To  have  ‘‘  an  opinion  about  Ireland,”  one  must  begin  by 
getting  at  the  truth  ; and  where  is  it  to  be  had  in  the  country.^ 
Or  rather,  there  are  two  truths,  the  Catholic  truth  and  the 
l^rotestant  truth.  The  two  parties  do  not  see  things  with  the 
same  eyes.  I recollect,  for  instance,  a Catholic  gentleman 
telling  me  that  the  Primate  had  forty-three  thousand  five  hun- 
dred a year ; a Protestant  clergyman  gave  me,  chapter  and 
verse,  the  history  of  a shameful  perjury  and  malversation  of 
money  on  the  part  of  a Catholic  priest : nor  was  one  tale  more 
true  than  the  other.  But  belief  is  made  a party  business  ; and 
the  receiving  of  the  archbishop’s  income  would  probably  not 
convince  the  Catholic,  any  more  than  the  clearest  evidence  to 
the  contrary  altered  the  Protestant’s  opinion.  Ask  about  an 
estate : you  may  be  sure  almost  that  people  will  make  mis- 
statements, or  volunteer  them  if  not  asked.  Ask  a cottager 
about  his  rent,  or  his  landlord  : you  cannot  trust  him.  I shall 
never  forget  the  glee  with  which  a gentleman  in  Munster  told  me 
how  he  had  sent  olf  MM.  Tocqueville  and  Beaumont  “ with  such 
a set  of  stories.”  Inglis  was  seized,  as  I am  told,  and  mystified 
in  the  same  way.  In  the  midst  of  all  these  truths,  attested  with 
“ I give  ye  my  sacred  honor  and  word,”  which  is  the  stranger 
to  select?  And  how  are  we  to  trust  philosophers  who  make 
theories  upon  such  data? 

3Xean while  it  is  satisfactory  to  know,  upon  testimony  so 


312 


THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK. 


general  as  to  be  equivalent  almost  to  fact,  that,  wretched  as  it 
is,  the  country  is  steadil^^  advancing,  nor  nearly  so  wretched 
now  as  it  was  a score  of  years  since  ; and  let  us  hope  that  the 
middle  class^  which  this  increase  of  prosperity  must  generate 
(and  of  which  our  laws  have  hitherto  forbidden  the  existence 
in  Ireland,  making  there  a population  of  Protestant  aristocracy 
and  Catholic  peasantry),  will  exercise  the  greatest  and  most 
beneficial  influence  over  the  country.  Too  independent  to  be 
bullied  b}"  priest  or  squire  — having  their  interest  in  quiet,  and 
alike  indisposed  to  servility  or  to  rebellion  ; may  not  as  much 
be  hoped  from  the  gradual  formation  of  such  a class,  as  from 
aiw  legislative  meddling.  It  is  the  want  of  the  middle  class 
that  has  rendered  the  squire  so  arrogant,  and  the  clerical  or 
political  demagogue  so  powerful ; and  I think  IMr.  O’Connell 
himself  would  say  that  the  existence  of  such  a body  would  do 
more  for  the  stead}'  acquirement  of  orderly  freedom,  than  the 
occasional  outbreak  of  any  crowd,  influenced  by  any  eloquence 
from  altar  or  tribune. 


1 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


j|^!f '“■  "■■  ■ . «■--.■  -' 

: 'E-k. 


HaTOAfll 


-,V-^  . >j  [^j4 


CAPTAIN  ROOK  AND  MR.  PIGEON. 


The  statistic-mongers  and  dealers  in  gcograph}^  have  ealeii- 
incod  to  a niecty  how  many  quartern  loaves,  bars  of  iron,  jiiga 
of  lead,  sacks  of  wool,  Turks,  C^uakei'S,  Methodists,  Jews, 
Catholics,  and  Chureh-of-England  men  are  consumed  or  pro- 
duced in  the  dilferent  countries  of  this  wicked  world  : 1 should 
like  to  see  an  accurate  table  showing  the  rogues  and  dupes  ol 
each  nation  : the  calculation  would  form  a [irett}’  matter  for  a 
philosopher  to  speculate  upon.  The  mind  loves  to  repose  and 
l>roods  benevolenth’  over  this  expanded  theme.  What  thieves 
are  there  in  Paris,  O heavens  ! and  what  a power  of  rogues 
with  pigtails  and  mandarin  buttons  at  Pekin ! Crowds  of 
swindlers  are  there  at  this  veiy  moment  pursuing  their  trade  at 
St.  Petersburg : how  many  scoundrels  are  sa3  ing  their  prayers 
alongside  of  Don  Carlos  ! how  many  scores  are  jobbing  under 
the  iiretty  nose  of  Queen  Christina  ! what  an  inordinate  number 
of  rascals  is  there,  to  be  sure,  puffing  tobacco  and  drinking  flat 
small-beer  in  all  the  capitals  of  German}' ; or  else,  without  a 
rag  to  their  ebony  backs,  swigging  quass  out  of  calabashes, 
and  smeared  over  with  palm-oil,  lolling  at  the  doors  of  clay 
huts  in  the  sunny  city  of  Timbuctoo  ! It  is  not  necessary  to 
make  anj'  more  topographical  allusions,  or,  for  illustrating  the 
above  position,  to  go  through  the  whole  Gazetteer;  but  he  is  a 
bad  philosopher  who  has  not  all  these  things  in  mind,  and  does 
not  in  his  speculations  or  his  estimate  of  mankind  duly  con- 
sider and  weigh  them.  And  it  is  fine  and  consolatory  to  think 
that  thoughtful  Nature,  which  has  provided  sweet  flowers  for 
the  humming  bee ; fair  running  streams  for  glittering  fish ; 
store  of  kids,  deer,  goats,  and  other  fresh  meat  for  roaring 
lions ; fon  active  cats,  mice ; for  mice,  cheese,  and  so  on ; 


31G 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


establishing  throughout  the  whole  of  her  realm  the  great  doc- 
trine that  where  a demand  is,  there  will  be  a supply  (see  the 
romances  of  Adam  Smith,  Malthus,  and  Ricardo,  and  the 
philosophical  works  of  Miss  Martineau)  : I say  it  is  consolatory 
to  think  that,  as  Nature  has  provided  flies  for  the  food  of  fishes, 
and  flowers  for  bees,  so  she  has  created  fools  for  rogues  ; and 
thus  the  scheme  is  consistent  throughout.  Yes,  observation, 
with  extensive  view,  will  discover  Captain  Rooks  all  over  the 
world,  and  Mr.  Pigeons  made  for  their  benefit.  Wherever 
shines  the  sun,  you  are  sure  to  find  Follj^  basking  in  it ; and 
knaveiy  is  the  shadow  at  P''olly’s  heels. 

It  is  not,  however,  necessary  to  go  to  St.  Petersburg  or 
Pekin  for  rogues  (and  in  truth  I don’t  know  whether  the  Tim- 
buctoo  Ca[)taiu  Rooks  prefer  cribbage  or  billiards).  “ We  are 
not  birds,”  as  the  Irishman  says,  “to  be  in  half  a dozen  places 
at  once  ; ” so  let  us  pretermit  all  considerations  of  rogues  in 
other  countries,  examining  only  those  who  flourish  under  our 
very  noses.  I have  travelled  much,  and  seen  many  men  and 
cities  ; and,  in  truth,  I think  that  our  country  of  England  pro- 
duces the  best  soldiers,  sailors,  razors,  tailors,  brewers,  hatters, 
and  rogues,  of  all.  Especially  there  is  no  cheat  like  an  English 
cheat.  Our  society  produces  them  in  the  greatest  numbers  as 
well  as  of  the  greatest  excellence.  We  supply  all  Europe  with 
them.  I defy  3'ou  to  [)oint  out  a great  cit}’  of  the  Continent 
where  half  a dozen  of  them  are  not  to  be  found  : proofs  of  our 
enterprise  and  samples  of  our  home  manufacture.  Tiy  Rome, 
Clieltenham,  Baden,  Toeplitz,  Madrid,  or  Tzarskoselo : 1 have 
been  in  eveiy  one  of  them,  and  give  \'ou  m3’  honor  that  the 
Englishman  is  the  best  rascal  to  be  found  in  all ; better  than 
your  eager  Frenchman  ; your  swaggering  Irishman,  with  a red 
velvet  waistcoat  and  red  whiskers  ; your  grave  Spaniard,  with 
horrid  goggle  eyes  and  profuse  diamond  shirt-pins  ; your  tallow- 
faced  German  baron,  with  white  moustache  and  double  chin, 
fat,  pudgy,  dirt3'  fingers,  and  great  gold  thumb-ring ; better 
even  than  your  nondescript  Russian  — swindler  and  spy  as  he 
is  by  loyalty  and  education  — the  most  dangerous  antagonist 
we  have.  \Vdio  has  the  best  coat  even  at  Vienna?  who  has 
the  neatest  britzska  at  Baden?  who  drinks  the  best  champagne 
at  Paris?  Captain  Rook,  to  be  sure,  of  her  Britannic  Majesty’s 
service  : — he  has  been  of  the  service,  that  is  to  sa3',  but  often 
finds  it  convenient  to  sell  out. 

The  life  of  a blackleg,  which  is  the  name  contemptuously 
applied  to  Captain  Rook  in  his  own  country,  is  such  an  easy, 
comfortable,  careless,  merry  one,  that  I can’t  conceive  why  all 


CAPTAIN  ROOK  AND  MR.  PIGEON. 


o!7 

the  world  do  not  turn  Captain  Rooks  ; unless,  may  be,  there 
are  some  mysteries  and  dilliculties  in  it  which  the  vulgar  know 
nothing  of,  and  which  only  men  of  real  genius  can  overcome. 
Call  on  Captain  Rook  in  the  da}^  (in  London,  he  lives  about 
St.  James’s  ; abroad,  he  has  the  veiy  l)est  rooms  in  the  very 
best  hotels),  and  you  will  find  him  at  one  o’clock  dressed  in 
the  very  finest  rohe-de-chamhre^  before  a breakfast-table  covered 
with  the  prettiest  patties  and  delicacies  [)ossible ; smoking, 
perha[)s,  one  of  the  biggest  JMeerschaum  [)i[)es  3'ou  ever  saw  ; 
reading,  possibh’.  The  JMorniiuj  Posf^  or  a novel  (he  has  only 
one  volume  in  his  whole  room,  and  that  from  a circulating 
libraiT)  ; or  having  his  hair  dressed  ; or  talking  to  a tailor 
about  waistcoat  [)atterns  ; or  drinking  soda-water  with  a glass 
of  sherrv  ; all  this  he  docs  every  morning,  and  it  does  not  seem 
veiy  dillicult,  and  lasts  until  three.  At  three,  he  goes  to  a 
horse-dealer’s,  and  lounges  there  for  half  an  hour;  at  four  he  is 
to  be  seen  at  the  window  of  his  Club  ; at  five,  he  is  cantering 
and  curveting  in  IL'de  Park  with  one  or  two  more  (he  does 
not  know  aiy^  ladies,  but  has  many  male  acquaintances  : some, 
stout  old  gentlemen  riding  cobs,  who  knew  his  famil}^  and  give 
him  a surly  grunt  of  recognition  ; some,  veiy  young  lads  with 
pale  dissolute  faces,  little  moustaches  perhaps,  or  at  least  little 
tufts  on  their  chin,  who  hail  him  eagerly  as  a man  of  fashion)  : 
at  seven,  he  has  a dinner  at  “ Long’s  ” or  at  the  “ Clarendon  ; ” 
and  so  to  bed  very  likely  at  five  in  the  morning,  after  a quiet 
game  of  whist,  broiled  bones,  and  punch. 

Perhaps  he  dines  early  at  a tavern  in  Covent  Garden  ; after 
which,  you  will  see  him  at  the  theatre  in  a private  box  (Captain 
Rook  affects  the  Olympic  a good  deal).  In  the  box,  beside 
himself,  3'OU  will  remark  a ,young  man  — veiy  3'oung  — one  of 
the  lads  who  spoke  to  him  in  the  Park  this  morning,  and  a 
couple  of  ladies : one  shabby,  melanchol}^  raw-boned,  with 
numberless  small  white  ringlets,  large  hands  and  feet,  and  a 
faded  light  blue  silk  gown  ; she  has  a large  cap,  trimmed  with 
yellowq  and  all  sorts  of  crumpled  flowers  and  greasy  blond 
lace  ; she  wears  large  gilt  car-rings,  and  sits  back,  and  nobody 
speaks  to  her,  and  she  to  nobody,  except  to  sa\q  “ Law,  Maria, 
bow  well  3'ou  do  look  to-night ; there’s  a man  opposite  has  been 
staring  at  you  this  three  hours  ; I’m  blest  if  it  isn’t  him  as  we 
saw  in  the  Park,  dear  ! ” 

“ I wash,  Hanna,  you’d  ’old  your  tongue,  and  not  bother  me 
about  the  men.  You  don’t  believe  Miss  ’Ickman,  Freddy,  do 
3'OU?”  says  Maria,  smiling  fondly  on  Freddy.  Maria  is  sitting 
in  front : she  says  she  is  twent3’-three,  though  Miss  Hickman 


318 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


knows  very  well  she  is  thirty-one  (Freddy  is  just  of  age).  She 
wears  a purple-velvet  gown,  three  different  gold  bracelets  on 
each  arm,  as  many  rings  on  eacli  finger  of  each  hand ; to  one 
is  hooked  a gold  smelling-bottle  : she  has  an  enormous  fan,  a 
laced  poclvet-handkerchief,  a cashmere  shawl,  which  is  con- 
tinually falling  off,  and  exposing,  veiy  unnecessarily,  a pair  of 
veiy  white  shoulders  : she  talks  loud,  alwaj’s  lets  her  playbill 
drop  into  the  pit,  and  smells  most  pungently  of  Mr.  Delcroix’s 
shop.  After  this  description  it  is  not  at  all  necessary  to  say 
who  Maria  is  : Miss  Hickman  is  her  companion,  and  they  live 
together  in  a ver3*  snug  little  house  in  Mayfair,  which  has  just 
been  new-furnished  a la  Louis  Quatorze  bj'  Fredd}’,  as  we  are 
positively’  informed.  It  is  even  said  that  the  little  carriage, 
with  two  little  white  ponies,  which  Maria  drives  herself  in  such 
a fascinating  way’  through  the  Park,  was  purchased  for  her  by 
Freddy’  too  ; a v,  and  that  Captain  Rook  got  it  for  him  — a great 
bargain  of  course. 

Such  is  Captain  Rook’s  life.  Can  anything  be  more  easy? 
Suppose  IMaria  snvs,  “ Come  home,  Rook,  and  heat  a cold 
chicken  with  us,  and  a glass  of  hiced  champagne  ; ” and  sup- 
pose he  goes,  and  after  chicken  — just  for  fun  — Maria  proposes 
a little  chicken-hazard;  — she  only’  play’s  for  shillings,  while 
Freddy’,  a little  bolder,  won’t  mind  half-poimd  stakes  himself 
Is  there  any  great  harm  in  all  this?  ^^T‘il,  after  half  an  hour, 
IMaria  grows  tired,  and  iMiss  Hickman  lias  oeen  nodding  asleep 
in  the  corner  long  ago  ; so  off  the  two  ladies  set,  caudle  in 
hand. 

I) — n it,  Fred,”  says  Captain  Rook,  pouring  out  for  that 
y’oung  gentleman  his  (ifteenth  glass  of  champagne,  ‘‘  what  luck 
y’ou  are  in,  if  you  did  but  know  liow  to  back  it!” 

Wliat  more  natural,  and  even  kind,  of  Rook  than  to  say' 
t!iis?  Fred  is  evidently’  an  inexperienced  play’er ; and  every' 
('xperienced  })layer  knows  that  there  is  nothing  like  backing 
your  luck.  Freddy  docs.  AVell : fortune  is  proverbially’ varia- 
ble ; and  it  is  not  at  all  surprising  that  Freddy,  after  having 
had  so  much  luck  at  the  commencement  of  the  evening,  should 
have  the  tables  turned  on  him  at  some  time  or  other.  — Freddy’ 
loses. 

It  is  deuced  unlucky,  to  be  sure,  that  he  should  have  won 
all  the  liltle  coups  and  lost  all  the  great  ones  ; but  there  is  a 
plan  which  the  commonest  j)lav-man  knows,  an  infallible  means 
of  retrieving  yourself  at  play  : it  is  simply  doubling  your  stake. 
Say',  you  lose  a guinea:  you  bet  two  guineas,  which  if  you  win, 
you  win  a guinea  and  your  original  stake  : if  you  lose,  you  have 


CAPTAIN  ROOK  AND  MR.  PIGEON. 


319 


but  to  bet  four  guineas  on  the  third  stake,  eight  on  the  fourth, 
sixteen  on  the  fifth,  thirt3’-two  on  the  sixth,  and  so  on.  It 
stands  to  reason  that  you  cannot  lose  (dwnys^  and  the  veiy  first 
time  you  win,  all  your  losings  are  made  up  to  you.  There  is 
but  one  drawback  to  thispnfallible  process  ; if  you  begin  at  a 
guinea,  double  eveiy  time  3’ou  lose,  and  lose  fil’teen  times,  you 
will  have  lost  exactl}'  sixteen  thousand  three  hundred  and 
eighty-four  guineas  ; a sum  which  j^robably  exceeds  the  aiiiouut 
of  your  yearl}'  income : — mine  is  considerabl}'  under  that 
figure. 

Freddy'  does  not  pla\'  this  game  then,  }’et ; but  being  a poor- 
spirited  creature,  as  we  have  seen  he  must  be  by  being  afraid 
to  win,  he  is  efpialh'  poor-spirited  when  he  begins  to  lose  : he 
is  frightened  ; that  is,  increases  his  stakes,  and  backs  his  ill- 
luck  : when  a man  does  this,  it  is  all  over  with  him. 

AVhen  Captain  Rook  goes  home  (the  sun  is  peering  through 
the  shutters  of  the  little  drawing-room  in  Cin-zon  Street^  and  the 
ghastly  footboy  — oh,  how  bleared  his  eyes  look  as  he  opens 
the  door!)  — when  Captain  Rook  goes  home,  he  has  Fredd}"’s 
I O U’s  in  his  pocket  to  the  amount,  say,  of  three  hundred 
pounds.  Some  people  say  that  Maria  has  half  of  the  money 
when  it  is  paid  ; but  this  1 don’t  believe  : is  Captain  Rook  the 
kind  of  fellow  to  give  up  a purse  when  his  hand  has  once 
clawed  hold  of  it  ? 

Be  this,  however,  true  or  not,  it  concerns  us  very  little.  The 
Captain  goes  home  to  King  Street,  plunges  into  bed  much  too 
tired  to  say  his  praj’ers,  and  wakes  the  next  morning  at  twelve 
to  go  over  such  another  day  as  we  have  just  chalked  out  for 
him.  As  for  Freddy,  not  po[>pv,  nor  mandragora,  nor  all  the 
soda-water  at  the  chemist’s,  can  ever  medicine  him  to  that  sweet 
sleep  which  he  might  have  had  but  for  his  loss.  “ //’I  had  but 
played  my  king  of  hearts,”  sighed  Fred,  “ and  kept  back  my 
trump  ; but  there’s  no  standing  against  a fellow  who  turns  up  a 
king  seven  times  running : if  I had  even  but  pulled  up  when 
Thomas  (curse  him  I)  brought  up  that  infernal  Cura(;oa  punch, 
I should  have  saved  a couple  of  hundred,”  and  so  on  go  Fredd\’’s 
lamentations.  O luckless  Freddy  ! dismal  Freckly  ! silly  gaby 
of  a Freddy  1 you  are  hit  now,  and  there  is  no  cure  for  you  but 
bleeding  3^011  almost  to  death’s  door.  The  homoeopathic  maxim 
of  similia  sirmlibus  — which  means,  I believe,  that  3mu  are  to 
be  cured  “ b3’  a hair  of  the  dog  that  bit  3’ou  ” — must  be  put  in 
practice  with  regard  to  Freddy  — 01113^  not  in  homoeopathic  in- 
finitesimal  doses  ; no  hair  of  the  dog  that  bit  him  ; but,  vice 
cersd,  the  dog  of  the  hair  tliat  tickled  iiim.  Fredd3'  has  begun 


320 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


to  pla}' ; — a mere  trifle  at  first,  but  he  must  pla}’  it  out ; he 
must  go  the  whole  dog  now,  or  there  is  no  chance  for  him.  He 
must  pla}^  until  he  can  play  no  more  ; he  will  pla}^  until  he  has 
not  a shilling  left  to  pla}"  with,  when,  perhaps,  he  maj^  turn  out 
an  honest  man,  though  the  odds  are  against  him  : the  betting 
is  in  favor  of  his  being  a swindler  alwa^^s  ; a rich  or  a poor  one, 
as  the  case  ma}^  be.  I need  not  tell  Freddy’s  name,  I think, 
now  ; it  stands  on  this  card  : — 


MR.  FREDERICK  PIGEON, 
long’.s  hotel. 


I have  said  the  chances  are  that  Frederick  Pigeon,  Esq[.,  will 
become  a rich  or  a poor  swindler,  though  the  first  chance,  it 
must  be  confessed,  is  veiy  remote.  I once  heard  an  actor,  who 
could  not  write,  speak,  or  even  read  English  ; who  was  not  fit 
for  an}'  trade  in  the  world,  and  had  not  the  “ nous  ” to  keep  an 
applestall,  and  scarcely  even  enough  sense  to  make  a Member 
of  Parliament:  I once,  1 say,  heard  an  actor, — whose  only 
qualifications  were  a large  pair  of  legs,  a large  voice,  and  a very 
large  neck,  — curse  his  fate  and  his  profession,  by  which, 
do  what  he  would,  he  could  onl}'  make  eight  guineas  a week. 
‘‘No  men,”  said  he,  with  a great  deal  of  justice,  “ were  so  ill 
paid  as  ‘ dramatic  artists  ; ’ they  labored  for  nothing  all  their 
youths,  and  had  no  provision  for  old  age.”  With  this,  he 
sighed,  and  called  for  (it  was  on  a Saturday  night)  the  forty- 
ninth  glass  of  brandy-and-water  which  he  had  drunk  in  the 
course  of  the  week. 

The  excitement  of  his  profession,  I make  no  doubt,  caused 
my  friend  Claptrap  to  consume  this  quantity  of  spirit-and-water, 
besides  beer  in  the  morning,  after  rehearsal ; and  I could  not 
help  musing  over  his  fate.  It  is  a hard  one.  To  eat,  drink, 
work  a little,  and  be  jolly  ; to  be  paid  twice  as  much  as  you  are 
worth,  and  then  to  go  to  ruin;  to  drop  off  the  tree  when  you 
are  swelled  out,  seedy,  and  over-ripe  ; and  to  lie  rotting  in  the 
mud  underneath,  until  at  last  you  mingle  with  it. 

Now,  badly  as  the  actor  is  paid,  (and  the  reader  will  the 
more  readily  pardon  the  above  episode,  because,  in  reality, 
it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  subject  in  hand,)  and  luckless  as 
his  fate  is,  the  lot  of  the  poor  blackleg  is  cast  lower  still.  You 
never  hear  of  a rich  gambler ; or  of  one  who  wins  in  the  end. 
Where  does  all  the  money  go  to  which  is  lost  among  them? 


CAPTAIN  ROOK  AND  MR.  PIGEON. 


321 


Did  you  ever  pla}’  a game  at  loo  for  sixpences  ? At  the  end  of 
the  night  a great  many  of  those  small  coins  have  been  lost,  and 
in  consequence,  won  : but  ask  the  table  all  round  ; one  man  has 
won  three  shillings  ; two  have  neither  lost  nor  won  ; one  rather 
thinks  he  has  lost ; and  the  three  others  have  lost  two  pounds 
each.  Is  not  this  the  fact,  known  to  everybod}’  who  indulges 
in  round  games,  and  especially  the  noble  game  of  loo?  I often 
think  that  the  devil’s  books,  as  cards  are  called,  are  let  out  to 
us  from  Old  Nick’s  circulating  library,  and  that  he  lays  his  paw 
upon  a certain  part  of  the  winnings,  and  carries  it  olf  privily : 
else,  what  becomes  of  all  the  money? 

For  instance,  there  is  the  gentleman  whom  the  newspapers 
call  a noble  earl  of  sporting  celebrit}’ ; ” — if  he  has  lost  a 
shilling,  according  to  the  newspaper  accounts,  he  has  lost  fift}^ 
millions  : he  drops  fifty  thousand  pounds  at  the  Derb}^,  just  as 
you  and  I would  lav  down  twopence-halfpenii}'  for  half  an  ounce 
of  Macabaw.  Who  has  won  these  millions?  Is  it  Mr.  Crock- 
ford,  or  Mr.  Bond,  or  Mr.  Salon-des-Etrangers?  (I  do  not  call 
these  latter  gentlemen  gamblers,  for  their  speculation  is  a cer- 
tainty) ; but  who  wins  his  mone}',  and  everybodj"  else’s  mone}^ 
who  plays  and  loses  ? Much  money  is  staked  in  the  absence  of 
Mr.  Crockford  ; many  notes  are  given  without  the  interference 
of  the  Bonds  ; there  are  hundreds  of  thousands  of  gamblers 
who  are  etrangers  even  to  the  Salon-des-Etrangers. 

No,  m3"  dear  sir,  it  is  not  in  the  public  gambling-houses  that 
the  mone}"  is  lost ; it  is  not  in  them  that  your  virtue  is  chiefly 
in  danger.  Better  b3"  half  lose  3’our  income,  your  fortune,  or 
3"our  master’s  mone}',  in  a decent  public  hell,  than  in  the  private 
societ}'  of  such  men  as  m3'  friend  Captain  Rook  ; but  we  are 
again  and  again  digressing ; the  point  is,  is  the  Captain’s  trade 
a good  one,  . and  does  it  3'ield  tolerabl3'  good  interest  for  outlay 
and  capital? 

To  the  latter  question  first : — at  this  very  season  of  Ma3", 
when  the  Rooks  are  A"eiy  3'oung,  have  3-011  not,  my  dear  friend, 
often  tasted  them  in  pies  ? — they"  are  then  so  tender  that  you 
cannot  tell  the  difference  between  them  and  pigeons.  80,  in 
like  manner,  our  Rook  has  been  in  his  youth  undistinguishable 
from  a pigeon.  He  does  as  he  has  been  done  by  : y-ea,  he  has  been 
plucked  as  even  now  he  plucks  his  friend  Mr.  Frederick  Pigeon. 
Say"  that  he  began  the  world  with  ten  thousand  pounds : every 
maravedi  of  this  is  gone  ; and  may*  be  considered  as  the  capi- 
tal which  he  has  sacrificed  to  learn  his  trade.  Having  spent 
10,000/.,  then,  on  an  annuity’  of  650/.,  he  must  look  to  a larger 
interest  for  his  money  — say  fifteen  hundred,  two  thousand,  or 

21 


322  CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 

three  thousand  pounds,  decently"  to  repa}^  his  risk  and  labor. 
Besides  the  money  sunk  in  the  first  place,  his  profession  requires 
continual  annual  outla}"S,  as  thus  — 

Horses,  carriages  (including  Epsom,  Goodwood,  Ascot,  &c.)  . . £500  0 0 

Lodgings,  servants,  and  board  350  0 0 

Watering-places,  and  touring 300  0 0 


Dinners  to  give 150  0 0 

Pocket-money 150  0 0 


Gloves,  handkerchiefs,  perfumery,  and  tobacco  (very  moderate) . 150  0 0 

Tailor’s  bills  (£100  say,  never  paid) 000 

Total £1,600  0 0 

I def}^  an}"  man  to  carry  on  the  profession  in  a decent  way 
under  the  above  sum : ten  thousand  sunk,  and  sixteen  hundred 
annual  expenses  ; no,  it  is  not  a good  profession  : it  is  not  good 
interest  for  one’s  money  : it  is  not  a fair  remuneration  for  a 
gentleman  of  birth,  industry,  and  genius  : and  my  friend  Clap- 
trap, who  growls  about  his  pay,  may  bless  his  eyes  that  he  was 
not  born  a gentleman  and  bred  up  to  such  an  unprofitable  calling 
as  this.  Considering  his  trouble,  his  outlay,  his  birth,  and 
breeding,  the  Captain  is  most  wickedly  and  basely  rewarded. 
And  when  he  is  obliged  to  retreat,  when  his  hand  trembles,  his 
credit  is  fallen,  his  bills  laughed  at  by  every  money-lender  in 
Europe,  his  tailors  rampant  and  inexorable  — in  fact,  when  the 
coup  of  life  will  sauter  for  him  no  more  — who  will  help  the  play- 
worn  veteran  ? As  Mitchel  sings  after  Aristophanes  — 

“ In  glory  be  was  seen,  when  his  years  as  yet  were  green; 

But  now  when  his  dotage  is  on  him, 

God  help  him  ; — for  no  eye  of  those  who  pass  him  by, 

Throws  a look  of  compassion  upon  him.” 

Who  indeed  will  help  him  ? — not  his  family,  for  he  has  bled  his 
father,  his  uncle,  his  old  grandmother ; he  has  had  slices  out  of 
his  sisters’  portions,  and  quarrelled  with  his  brothers-in-law  ; the 
old  people  are  dead  ; the  young  ones  hate  him,  and  will  give 
him  nothing.  Who  will  help  him  ? — not  his  friends  ; in  the 
first  place,  my  dear  sir,  a man’s  friends  very  seldom  do  : in  the 
second  place,  it  is  Captain  Rook’s  business  not  to  keep,  but  to 
give  up  his  friends.  His  acquaintances  do  not  last  more  than 
a year ; the  time,  namely,  during  which  he  is  employed  in 
plucking  them  ; then  they  part.  Pigeon  has  not  a single  feather 
left  to  his  tail,  and  how  should  he  help  Rook,  Avhom,  au  rests. 
he  has  learned  to  detest  most  cordially,  and  has  found  out  to 
be  a rascal?  When  Rook’s  ill  day  conies,  it  is  simply  because 


CAPTAIN  ROOK  AND  MR.  PIGEON. 


323 


he  has  no  more  friends  ; he  has  exhausted  them  all,  plucked 
every  one  as  clean  as  the  palm  of  your  hand.  And  to  arrive 
at  this  conclusion,  Rook  has  been  spending  sixteen  hundred  a 
year,  and  the  prime  of  his  life,  and  has  moreover  sunk  ten 
thousand  pounds  ! Is  this  a proper  reward  for  a gentleman  ? 
1 say  it  is  a sin  and  a shame  that  an  English  gentleman  should 
be  allowed  thus  to  drop  down  the  stream  without  a single  hand 
to  help  him. 

The  moral  of  the  above  remarks  I take  to  be  this  ; that 
blacklegging  is  as  bad  a trade  as  can  be  ; and  so  let  parents 
and  guardians  look  to  it,  and  not  apprentice  their  children  to 
such  a villanous,  scurv}"  way  of  living. 

It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that  there  are  some  indi- 
viduals who  have  for  the  profession  such  a natural  genius,  tliat 
no  entreaties  or  example  of  parents  will  keep  them  from  it, 
and  no  restraint  or  occupation  occasioned  by  another  calling. 
The}^  do  what  Christians  do  not  do  ; they  leave  all  to  follow 
their  master  the  Devil ; they  cut  friends,  families,  and  good, 
thriving,  profitable  trades  to  put  up  with  this  one,  that  is  both 
unthrifty  and  unprofitable.  They  are  in  regiments  : ugly  whis- 
pers about  certain  midnight  games  at  blind-hookey,  and  a few 
odd  bargains  in  horseflesh,  are  borne  abroad,  and  Cornet  Rook 
receives  the  gentlest  hint  in  the  world  that  he  had  better  sell 
out.  They  are  in  counting-houses,  with  a promise  of  partner- 
ship, for  which  papa  is  to  lay  down  a handsome  premium  ; but 
the  firm  of  Hobbs,  Bobbs  and  Higgory  can  never  admit  a }'oung 
gentleman  who  is  a notorious  gambler,  is  much  oftener  at  the 
races  than  his  desk,  and  has  bills  dail}'  falling  due  at  his  pri- 
vate banker’s.  The  father,  that  excellent  old  man,  Sam  Rook, 
so  well  known  on  ’Change  in  the  war-time,  discovers,  at  the 
end  of -five  years,  that  his  son  has  spent  rather  more  than  the 
four  thousand  pounds  intended  for  his  partnership,  and  cannot, 
in  common  justice  to  his  other  thirteen  children,  give  him  a 
shilling  more.  A prett}'  pass  for  flash  young  Tom  Rook,  with 
four  horses  in  stable,  a protemporaneous  Mrs.  Rook,  very 
likel^y  in  an  establishment  near  the  Regent’s  Park,  and  a bill 
for  three  hundred  and  seventh-five  pounds  coming  due  on  the 
fifth  of  next  month. 

Sometimes  young  Rook  is  destined  to  the  bar : and  1 am 
glad  to  introduce  one  of  these  gentlemen  and  his  history  to  the 
notice  of  the  reader.  He  was  the  son  of  an  amiable  gentleman, 
the  Reverend  Athanasius  Rook,  who  took  high  honors  at  Cam- 
oridge  in  the  year  1 : was  a fellow  of  Trinit}^  in  the  3 ear  2 : and 
so  continued  a fellow  and  tutor  of  the  College  until  a living  fell 


324 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


vacant,  on  which  he  seized.  It  was  onl}*  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a }^ear  ; but  the  fact  is,  Athanasius  was  in  love.  Miss 
Gregor}",  a prett}%  demure,  simple  governess  at  Miss  Mickle’s 
establishment  for  young  ladies  in  Cambridge  (where  the  rever- 
end gentleman  used  often  of  late  to  take  his  tea),  had  caught 
the  eye  of  the  honest  college  tutor : and  in  Trinity  walks,  and 
up  and  down  the  Trumpington  Road,  he  walked  with  her  (and 
another  young  lady  of  course),  talked  with  her,  and  told  his 
love. 

Miss  Gregory  had  not  a rap,  as  might  be  imagined  ; but  she 
loved  Athanasius  with  her  whole  soul  and  strength,  and  was 
the  most  orderly,  cheerful,  tender,  smiling,  bustling  little  wife 
that  ever  a countr}^  parson  was  blessed  withal.  Athanasius  took 
a couple  of  pupils  at  a couple  of  hundred  guineas  each,  and  so 
made  out  a snug  income  ; ay,  and  laid  b}’  for  a rain}"  day  — a 
little  portion  for  Harriet,  when  she  should  grow  up  and  marry, 
and  a help  for  Tom  at  college  and  at  the  bar.  For  you  must 
know  there  were  two  little  Rooks  now  growing  in  the  rookery  ; 
and  very  happy  were  father  and  mother,  I can  tell  you,  to  put 
meat  down  their  tender  little  throats.  Oh,  if  ever  a man  was 
good  and  happy,  it  was  Athanasius  ; if  ever  a woman  was  happy 
and  good,  it  was  his  wife : not  the  whole  parish,  not  the  whole 
county,  not  the  whole  kingdom,  could  produce  such  a snug 
rectory,  or  such  a pleasant  menage. 

Athanasius’s  fame  as  a scholar,  too,  was  great ; and  as  his 
charges  were  very  high,  and  as  he  received  but  two  pupils, 
there  was,  of  course,  much  anxiety  among  wealthy  parents  to 
place  their  children  under  his  care.  Future  squires,  bankers, 
yea,  lords  and  dukes,  came  to  profit  by  his  instructions,  and 
were  led  by  him  gracefully  over  the  “ Asses’  bridge  ” into  the 
sublime  regions  of  mathematics,  or  through  the  syntax  into 
the  pleasant  paths  of  classic  lore. 

In  the  midst  of  these  companions,  Tom  Rook  grew  up  ; more 
fondled  and  petted,  of  course,  than  they ; cleverer  than  they ; 
as  handsome,  dashing,  well-instructed  a lad  for  his  years  as 
ever  went  to  college  to  be  a senior  wrangler,  and  went  down 
without  any  such  honor. 

Fancy,  then,  our  young  gentleman  installed  at  college, 
whither  his  father  has  taken  him,  and  with  fond  veteran  recol- 
lections has  surveyed  hall  and  grass-plots,  and  the  old  porter, 
and  the  old  fountain,  and  the  old  rooms  in  which  he  used  to 
live.  Fancy  the  sobs  of  good  little  Mrs.  Rook,  as  she  parted 
with  her  boy ; and  the  tears  of  sweet  pale  Harriet,  as  she  clung 
round  his  neck,  and  brought  him  (in  a silver  paper,  slobbered 


CAPTAIN  ROOK  AND  MR.  PIGEON. 


325 


with  many  tears)  a little  crimson  silk  purse  (wiJi  two  guineas 
@f  her  own  in  it,  poor  thing!).  Fanc}^  all  this,  and  fancy 
young  Tom,  sorry  too,  but  yet  restless  and  glad,  panting  for 
the  new  life  opening  upon  him  ; the  freedom,  the  joy  of  the 
manly  struggle  for  fame,  which  he  vows  he  will  win.  Tom 
Rook,  in  other  words,  is  installed  at  Trinity  College,  attends 
lectures,  reads  at  home,  goes  to  chapel,  uses  wine-parties 
moderately,  and  bids  fair  to  be  one  of  the  topmost  men  of  his 
year. 

Tom  goes  dowm  for  the  Christinas  vacation.  (What  a man 
he  is  grown,  and  how  his  sister  and  mother  quarrel  which  shall 
walk  with  him  down  the  village  ; and  what  stories  the  old  gen- 
tleman lugs  out  with  his  old  port,  and  how  he  quotes  iEschy- 
liis,  to  be  sure !)  The  pupils  are  away  too,  and  the  three  have 
Tom  in  quiet.  Alas  ! I fear  the  [ilace  has  grown  a little  too 
quiet  for  Tom  : however,  he  reads  very  stoutly  of  mornings ; 
and  sister  Harriet  peeps  with  a great  deal  of  w'onder  into  huge 
books  of  scribbling-paper,  containing  many  strange  diagrams, 
and  complicated  arrangements  of  x's  and  y’s. 

Ma}^  comes,  and  the  college  examinations : the  delighted 
parent  receives  at  breakfast,  on  the  10th  of  that  month,  two 
letters,  as  follows  : — 

FROM  THE  REV.  SOLOMON  SNORTER  TO  THE  REV. 

ATHANASIUS  ROOK. 


“ Trinity,  May  10. 

“Dear  Credo*  — I wish  you  joy.  Your  lad  is  the  best  man  of  Ins 
year,  and  I hope  in  four  more  to  see  liim  at  our  table.  In  classics  he  is, 
my  dear  friend,  /(ic/7e  princeps  ; in  mathematics  he  was  run  hard  {enfre  nous) 
by  a lad  of  the  name  of  Snick,  a Westmoreland  man  and  a sizer.  We 
must  keep  up  Thomas  to  his  mathematics,  and  I have  no  doubt  we  shall 
make  a fellow  and  a wrangler  of  him. 

“ I send  you  his  college  bill,  105/.  10s.;  rather  heavy,  but  this  is  the  first 
term,  and  that  you  know  is  expensive  : I shall  be  glad  to  give  you  a receipt 
for  it.  By  the  way,  the  young  man  is  rather  too  fond  of  amusement,  and 
lives  with  a very  expensive  set.  Give  him  a lecture  on  this  score. 

“ Yours, 

“ Sol.  Snorter.” 

Next  comes  Mr.  Tom  Rook’s  own  letter : it  is  long,  modest : 
we  only  give  the  postscript : — 

“Pd5-  — Dear  father,  I forgot  to  say  that,  as  I live  in  the  very  best  set 
in  the  University,  (Lord  Bagwig,  the  Duke’s  eldest  son  you  know,  vows  he 
will  give  me  a living,)  I have  been  led  into  one  or  two  expenses  which  will 


* This  is  most  probably  a joke  on  the  Christian  name  of  Mr.  Rook. 


326 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES, 


frighten  you:  I lost  £30  to  the  lionorable  Mr.  Deuceace  (a  son  of  Lord 
Crabs)  at  Bagwig’s,  the  other  day  at  dinner ; and  owe  £54  more  for  des- 
serts and  hiring  horses,  which  I can’t  send  into  Snorter’s  bill.*  Hiring 
horses  is  so  deuced  expensive ; next  term  I must  have  a nag  of  my  own, 
that’s  positive.” 

The  Rev.  Athanasius  read  the  postscript  with  much  less  gusto 
than  the  letter : however,  Tom  has  done  his  duty,  and  the  old 
gentleman  won’t  balk  his  pleasure;  so  (le  sends  him  100/., 
with  a “ God  bless  you  !”  and  mamma  adds,  in  a postscript, 
that  “he  must  always  keep  well  with  his  aristocratic  friends, 
for  he  was  made  only  for  the  best  societ}'.” 

A year  or  two  passes  on : Tom  comes  home  for  the  vaca- 
tions ; but  Tom  has  sadly  changed  ; he  has  grown  haggard  and 
pale.  At  second  3^ear’s  examination  (owing  to  an  unlucky 
illness)  Tom  was  not  classed  at  all ; and  Snick,  the  Westmore- 
land man,  has  carried  everything  before  him.  Tom  drinks  more 
after  dinner  than  his  father  likes  ; he  is  always  riding  about 
and  dining  in  the  neighborhood,  and  coming  home,  quite  odd, 
his  mother  says  — ill-humored,  unstead}'  on  his  feet,  and  husky 
in  his  talk.  The  Reverend  Athanasius  begins  to  grow  verjq 
very  grave  : they'  have  high  words,  even  the  father  and  son ; 
and  oh  ! how  Harriet  and  her  mother  tremble  and  listen  at  the 
study'-door  when  these  disputes  are  going  on  ! 

The  last  term  of  Tom’s  undergraduateship  arrives  ; he  is  in 
ill  health,  but  he  will  make  a mighty  effort  to  retrieve  himself 
for  his  degree  ; and  early  in  the  cold  winter’s  morning  — late, 
late  at  night  — he  toils  over  his  books:  and  the  end  is  that, 
a month  before  the  examination,  Thomas  Rook,  Esquire,  has 
a brain  fever,  and  Mrs.  Rook,  and  Miss  Rook,  and  the  Rev- 
erend Athanasius  Rook,  are  all  lodging  at  the  “ Hoop,”  an 
inn  in  Cambridge  town,  and  day'  and  night  round  the  couch  of 
poor  Tom. 

O sin,  woe,  repentance!  O touching  reconciliation  and 
burst  of  tears  on  the  part  of  son  and  father,  when  one  morn- 
ing at  the  parsonage,  after  Tom’s  recovery,  the  old  gentleman 
produces  a bundle  of  receipts,  and  says,  with  a broken  voice. 

There,  boy,  don’t  be  vexed  about  yonr  debts.  Hoys  will 
be  boys,  1 know,  and  I have  paid  all  demands.”  Everybody' 
cries  in  the  house  at  this  news  ; the  mother  and  daughter  most 

* It  is,  or  was,  the  custom  for  young  gentlemen  at  Cambridge  to  have 
unlimited  credit  with  tradesmen,  whom  tlie  college  tutors  paid,  and  then 
sent  the  bills  to  the  parents  of  the  young  ra«n. 


CAPTAIN  ROOK  AND  MR.  PIGEON.  o27 

profusely,  even  Mrs.  Stokes  the  old  housekeeper,  who  shakes 
master’s  hand,  and  actually  kisses  Mr.  Tom. 

Well,  Tom  begins  to  read  a little  for  his  fellowship,  but  in 
vain  ; he  is  beaten  by  JMr.  Snick,  the  'WT'stinoreland  man.  He 
lias  no  hopes  of  a living  ; Lord  Rag  wig’s  {iroiniscs  were  all  moon- 
shine. Tom  must  go  to  the  liar ; and  his  father,  who  has  long 
left  olF  taking  [)U[)ils,  must  take  them  again,  to  su])port  his  son 
in  London. 

Why  tell  3'ou  what  happens  when  there?  Tom  lives  at  the 
west  end  of  the  town,  and  never  goes  near  the  Temple  : Tom 
goes  to  Ascot  and  Epsom  along  with  his  great  friends  ; Tom  has 
a long  liill  with  Mr.  Rymell,  another  long  bill  with  Mr.  Nugee; 
he  gets  into  the  hands  of  the  Jews  — and  his  father  rushes  up 
to  London  on  the  outside  of  the  coach  to  find  Tom  in  a spunging- 
house  in  Cursitor  Street  — the  nearest  ap[)roach  he  has  made  to 
the  Temple  during  his  three  years’  residence  in  London. 

I don’t  like  to  tell  you  the  rest  of  the  histoiy.  The  Rev- 
erend Athanasius  was  not  immortal,  and  he  died  a }’ear  after 
Ins  visit  to  the  spunging-hoiise,  leaving  his  son  exactly  one 
farthing,  and  his  wdfe  one  hundred  pounds  a year,  with  re- 
mainder to  his  daughter.  But,  heaven  bless  you  ! The  poor 
things  would  never  allow  Tom  to  want  while  the}’  had  plenty, 
and  the}^  sold  out  and  sold  out  the  three  thousand  i)ounds, 
until,  at  the  end  of  three  years,  there  did  not  remain  one 
single  stiver  of  them  ; and  now'  Miss  Harriet  is  a governess, 
with  sixt}'  pounds  a year,  supporting  her  mother,  wdio  lives 
upon  fifty. 

As  for  Tom,  he  is  a regular  leg  now  — leading  the  life  alread}’ 
described.  When  I met  him  last  it  w'as  at  Baden,  where  he 
w'as  on  a professional  tour,  with  a carriage,  a courier,  a valet, 
a confederate,  and  a case  of  pistols.  He  has  been  in  five 
duels,  he  has  killed  a man  who  spoke  lightly  about  his  honor ; 
and  at  French  or  English  hazard,  at  billiards,  at  whist,  at  loo, 
ecarte,  blind  hookey,  drawing  straws,  or  beggar-my-neighbor, 
he  will  cheat  you  — cheat  you  for  a hundred  pounds  or  for  a 
guinea,  and  murder  you  afterwards  if  you  like. 

Abroad,  our  friend  takes  militaiy  rank,  and  calls  himself 
Captain  Rook  ; when  asked  of  what  service,  he  says  he  was 
with  Don  Carlos  or  Queen  Christina ; and  certain  it  is  that  he 
was  absent  for  a couple  of  years  nobodj’  know's  where  ; he  may 
have  been  with  General  Evans,  or  he  may  have  been  at  the 
Sainte  Pelagie  in  Paris,  as  some  people  vow  he  was. 

AVe  must  wind  up  this  paper  with  some  remarks  concern- 
ing poor  little  Pigeon.  Vanity  has  been  little  Pigeon’s  failing 


:^>28  CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 

through  life.  He  is  a linendraper’s  son,  and  has  been  left  with 
money : and  the  silly  fashionable  works  that  he  has  read,  and 
the  sill}^  female  relatives  that  he  has — (n.b.  All  young  men 
with  money  have  silly,  flattering  she-relatives)  — and  the  silly 
trips  that  h«  has  made  to  watering-places,  where  he  has  scraped 
acquaintance  with  the  Honorable  Tom  Mountcoffeehoiise,  Lord 
Ball3Looly,  the  celebrated  German  Prince,  Sweller  Mobskau, 
and  their  like  (all  Captain  Rooks  in  their  way),  have  been  the 
ruin  of  him. 

I have  not  the  slightest  pit}"  in  the  world  for  little  Pigeon. 
Look  at  him ! See  in  what  absurd  flnery  the  little  prig  is 
dressed.  Wine  makes  his  poor  little  head  ache,  but  he  will 
drink  because  it  is  manly.  In  mortal  fear  he  puts  himself 
behind  a curveting  cameleopard  of  a cab-horse  ; or  perched  on 
the  top  of  a prancing  dromedary,  is  borne  through  Rotten  Row, 
when  he  would  give  the  world  to  be  on  his  own  sofa,  or  with 
his  own  mamma  and  sisters,  over  a quiet  pool  of  commerce  and 
a cup  of  tea.  How  riding  does  scarif}^  his  poor  little  legs,  and 
shake  his  poor  little  sides ! Smoking,  how  it  does  turn  his 
little  stomach  inside  out;  and  }"et  smoke  he  will:  Sweller 
Mobskau  smokes ; Mountcoffeehoiise  don’t  mind  a cigar ; and 
as  for  Ballyhool}",  he  will  puff  you  a dozen  in  a da}^  and  says 
very  truly’  that  Pontet  won’t  supply  him  with  near  such  good 
ones  as  he  sells  Pigeon.  The  fact  is,  that  Pontet  vowed  seven 
y-ears  ago  not  to  give  his  lordship  a sixpence  more  credit ; and 
so  the  good-natured  nobleman  always  helps  himself  out  of 
Pigeon’s  box. 

On  the  shoulders  of  these  aristocratic  individuals,  Mr.  Pigeon 
is  carried  into  certain  clubs,  or  perhaps  we  should  say"  he  walks 
into  them  by  the  aid  of  these  “ legs.”  But  they  keep  him 
always  to  themselves.  Captain  Rooks  must  rob  in  companies  ; 
but  of  course,  the  greater  the  profits,  the  fewer  the  partners 
must  be.  Three  are  positively^  requisite,  however,  as  every 
^ reader  must  know  who  has  played  a game  at  whist : number 
one  to  be  Pigeon’s  partner,  and  curse  his  stars  at  losing,  and 
propose  higher  play%  and  “settle”  with  number  two;  number 
three  to  transact  business  with  Pigeon,  and  drive  him  down  to 
the  city^  to  sell  out.  We  have  known  an  instance  or  two  where, 
after  a very  good  night’s  work,  number  three  has  bolted  with  the 
winnings  altogether,  but  the  practice  is  dangerous ; not  only 
disgraceful  to  the  profession,  but  it  cuts  up  your  own  chance 
afterwards,  as  no  one  will  act  with  you.  There  is  only-  one 
occasion  on  which  such  a manoeuvre  is  allowable.  »Many"  ai’e 
sick  of  the  profession,  and  desirous  to  turn  honest  men  : in 


CAPTAIN  ROOK  AND  MR.  PIGEON. 


329 


this  case,  when  you  can  get  a good  coup,  five  thousand  say, 
bolt  without  scru[)le.  One  thing  is  clear,  the  other  men  must 
be  mum,  and  you  can  live  at  Vienna  comfortabh^  on  the  interest 
of  five  thousand  [)ounds. 

Well,  then,  in  the  societ}’  of  these  amiable  confederates 
little  Pigeon  goes  through  that  period  of  time  which  is  neces- 
saiy  for  the  [)urpose  of  plucking  him.  To  do  this,  you  must 
not,  in  most  cases,  tug  at  the  feathers  so  as  to  hurt  him,  else 
he  may  be  frightened,  and  hop  awa}^  to  somebody  else  : nor, 
generally  speaking,  will  the  feathers  come  out  so  easily  at  first 
as  they  will  when  he  is  used  to  it,  and  then  they  drop  in  hand- 
fuls. Nor  need  you  have  the  least  scruple  in  so  causing  the 
little  creature  to  moult  artificially  : if  you  don’t,  somebody  else 
will : a Pigeon  goes  into  the  world  fated,  as  Chateaubriand 
says  — 

“ Pigeon,  il  va  subir  le  sort  de  tout  pigeon.” 

He  must  be  plucked,  it  is  the  purpose  for  which  nature  has 
formed  him  : if  3^011,  Captain  Rook,  do  not  perform  the  oper- 
ation on  a green  table  lighted  l)y  two  wax-candles,  and  with 
two  packs  of  cards  to  operate  with,  some  other  Rook  will : are 
there  not  railroads,  and  Spanish  bonds,  and  bituminous  com- 
panies, and  Cornish  tin-mines,  and  old  dow^agers  with  daughtei’s 
to  mai’iy?  If  3011  leave  him.  Rook  of  Birchin  Lane  will  have 
him  as  sure  as  fate : if  Rook  of  Birchin  Lane  don’t  hit  him. 
Rook  of  the  Stock  Exchange  will  blaze  awa3^  both  barrels  at 
him,  which  if  the  poor  trembling  flutterer  escape,  he  will  fl3" 
over  and  drop  into  the  rookeiy,  where  dear  old  swindling  Lady 
Rook  and  her  daughters  will  find  him  and  nestle  him  in  their 
bosoms,  and  in  that  soft  place  pluck  him  until  he  turns  out  as 
naked  as  a cannon-ball. 

Be  not  thou  scrupulous,  O Captain  ! Seize  on  Pigeon  ; pluck 
him  gently  but  boldl3' ; but,  above  all,  never  let  him  go.  If  he 
is  a stout  cautious  bird,  of  course  you  must  be  more  cautious  ; 
if  he  is  excessivel3’  sill3'  and  scared,  perhaps  the  best  way  is 
just  to  take  him  round  the  neck  at  once,  and  strip  the  whole 
stock  of  plumage  from  his  back. 

The  feathers  of  the  human  pigeon  being  thus  violentl3' 
abstracted  from  him,  no  others  supply  their  place  : and  yet 
I do  not  pit3^  him.  He  is  now  01113^  undergoing  the  destin3-  of 
pigeons,  and  is,  I do  believe,  as  happ3"  in  his  plucked  as  in  his 
feathered  state.  He  cannot  purse  out  his  breast,  and  bury  his 
head,  and  fan  his  tail,  and  strut  in  the  sun  as  if  he  were  a 
turkey-cock.  Under  all  those  fine  airs  and  feathers,  he  was 


330 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


but  what  he  is  now,  a poor  little  meek,  silly,  cowardly  bird, 
and  his  state  of  pride  is  not  a whit  more  natural  to  him  than 
his  fallen  condition.  He  soon  grows  used  to  it.  He  is  too 
great  a coward  to  despair ; much  too  mean  to  be  frightened 
because  he  must  live  by  doing  meanness.  He  is  sure,  if  he 
cannot  fly,  to  fall  somehow  or  other  on  his  little  miserable  legs  : 
on  these  he  hops  about,  and  manages  to  live  somewhere  in 
his  own  mean  wa}^  He  has  but  a small  stomach,  and  doesn’t 
mind  what  food  he  puts  into  it.  He  spunges  on  his  relatives  ; 
or  else  just  before  his  utter  ruin  he  marries  and  has  nine  children 
(and  such  a family  always  lives)  ; he  turns  bully  most  likely, 
takes  to  drinking,  and  beats  his  wife,  who  supports  him,  or 
takes  to  drinking  too  ; or  he  gets  a little  place,  a very  little  place  : 
3’^ou  hear  he  has  some  tide-waitership,  or  is  clerk  to  some  new 
milk  company,  or  is  lurking  about  a newspaper.  He  dies,  and 
a subscription  is  raised  for  the  Widow  Pigeon,  and  we  look  no 
more  to  find  a likeness  of  him  in  his  children,  who  are  as  a 
new  race.  Blessed  are  ye  little  ones,  for  ye  are  born  in  poverty, 
and  may  bear  it,  or  surmount  it  and  die  rich.  But  woe  to  the 
pigeons  of  this  earth,  for  they  are  born  rich  that  they  may  die 
poor. 

The  end  of  Captain  Rook  — for  we  must  bring  both  him  and 
the  paper  to  an  end — is  not  more  agreeable,  but  somewhat 
more  manl}"  and  majestic  than  the  conclusion  of  Mr.  Pigeon. 
If  you  walk  over  to  the  Queen’s  Bench  Prison,  1 would  lay  a 
wager  that  a dozen  such  are  to  be  found  there  in  a moment. 
The}^  have  a kind  of  Lucifer  look  with  them,  and  stare  at  you 
with  fierce,  twinkling,  crow-footed  eyes  ; or  grin  from  under 
huge  grizzly  moustaches,  as  they  walk  up  and  down  in  their 
tattered  brocades.  What  a dreadful  activity  is  that  of  a mad- 
house, or  a prison  ! — a dreary  fiagged  court- yard,  a long  dark 
room,  and  the  inmates  of  it,  like  the  inmates  of  the  menagerie 
feages,  ceaselessly  walking  up  and  down ! Mary  Queen  of 
Scots  says  very  touchingly  : — 

“ Pour  mon  mal  estranger 
Je  ne  ra’arreste  en  place  ; 

Mais,  j’en  ay  beau  changer 
Si  ma  douleur  n’efface  ! ” 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down  — the  inward  woe  seems  to  spur  the 
body  onwards  ; and  I think  in  both  madhouse  and  prison  you  will 
find  plenty"  of  specimens  of  our  Captain  Rook.  It  is  fine  to  mark 
him  under  the  pressure  of  this  woe,  and  see  how  fierce  he  looks 
when  stirred  up  by  the  long  pole  of  memory.  In  these  asylums 


CAPTAIN  ROOK  AND  MR.  PIGEON. 


331 


the  Rooks  end  their  lives  ; or,  more  happ}^,  they  die  miserably 
in  a miserable  provincial  town  abroad,  and  for  the  benefit  of 
coming  Rooks  they  commonly  die  early ; you  as  seldom  hear  of 
an  old  Rook  (practising  his  trade)  as  of  a rich  one.  It  is  a short- 
lived trade  ; not  meny,  for  the  gains  are  most  precarious,  and 
perpetual  doubt  and  dread  are  not  pleasant  accompaniments  of 
a profession  : — not  agreeable  either,  for  though  Captain  Roolc 
does  not  mind  being  a scoundrel,  no  man  likes  to  be  considered 
as  such,  and  as  such,  he  knows  very  well,  does  the  world  con- 
sider Captain  Rook : not  profitable,  for  the  expenses  of  the 
trade  swallow  up  all  the  profits  of  it,  and  in  addition  leave  the 
bankrupt  with  certain  halhts  that  have  become  as  nature  to  him, 
and  which,  to  live,  he  must  gratify.  I know  no  more  miserable 
wretch  than  our  Rook  in  his  autumn  da3's,  at  dismal  Calais  or 
Boulogne,  or  at  the  Bench  j^onder,  with  a whole  load  of  diseases 
and  wants,  that  have  come  to  him  in  the  course  of  his  profes- 
sion ; the  diseases  and  wants  of  sensualit}^  always  pampered, 
and  now  agonizing  for  lack  of  its  unnatural  food  ; the  mind, 
which  must  think  now^  and  has  011I3'  bitter  recollections,  morti- 
fied ambitions,  and  unavailing  scoundrehsms  to  con  over  ! Oh, 
Captain  Rook  ! what  nice  “ chums  ” do  3'ou  take  with  3'ou  into 
prison  ; what  pleasant  companions  of  exile  follow  you  over  the 
fines  patrice^  or  attend,  the  only  watchers,  round  your  miserable 
death-bed  ! 

M3^  son,  be  not  a Pigeon  in  thy  dealings  with  the  world ; — 
but  it  is  better  to  be  a Pigeon  than  a Rook. 


THE  FASHIONABLE  AUTHORESS. 


Paying  a visit  the  other  day  to  my  friend  Timson,  who,  I 
need  not  tell  the  public,  is  editor  of  that  famous  evening  paper, 
the  ....  (and  let  it  be  said  that  there  is  no  more  profitable 
acquaintance  than  a gentleman  in  Timson’s  situation,  in  whose 
office,  at  three  o’clock  daily,  you  are  sure  to  find  new  books, 
lunch,  magazines,  and  innumerable  tickets  for  concerts  and 
plan’s)  : going,  1 say,  into  Timson’s  office,  I saw  on  the  table  an 
immense  paper  cone  or  funnel,  containing  a bouquet  of  such  a 
size,  that  it  might  be  called  a bosquet,  wherein  all  sorts  of  rare 
geraniums,  luscious  magnolias,  statel}'  dahlias,  and  other  floral 
produce  were  gathered  together  — a regular  flower-stack. 

Timson  was  for  a brief  space  invisible,  and  I was  left  alone 
in  the  room  with  the  odors  of  this  tremendous  bow-pot,  which 
filled  the  whole  of  the  inky,  smutty,  dingy  apartment  with  an 
agreeable  incense.  “ 0 rus!  quando  te  aspiciamV  exclaimed 
I,  out  of  the  Latin  grammar,  for  imagination  had  carried  me 
away  to  the  country,  and  I was  about  to  make  another  excel- 
lent and  useful  quotation  (from  the  14th  book  of  the  Iliad, 
Madam),  concerning  “ rudd}"  lotuses,  and  crocuses,  and  hya- 
cinths,” when  all  of  a sudden  Timson  appeared.  His  head 
and  shoulders  had,  in  fact,  been  engulfed  in  the  flowers,  among 
which  he  might  be  com[)arcd  to  anj”  Cupid,  butterfly,  or  bee. 
His  little  face  w^as  screwed  up  into  such  an  expression  of 
comical  delight  and  triumph,  that  a Methodist  parson  would 
have  laughed  at  it  in  the  midst  of  a funeral  sermon. 

“ What  are  you  giggling  at?  ” said  Mr.  Timson,  assuming  a 
high,  aristocratic  air. 

“ Has  the  goddess  Flora  made  3^011  a present  of  that  bower, 
wrapped  up  in  white  paper ; or  did  it  come  hy  the  vulgar  hands 


THE  FASHIONABLE  AUTHORESS. 


333 


of  3’onder  gorgeous  footman,  at  whom  all  the  little  printer’s 
devils  are  staring  in  the  passage?” 

“ Stuff!  ” said  Timson,  picking  to  pieces  some  rare  exotic, 
worth  at  the  very  least  fifteenpence  ; ‘'a  friend,  who  knows 
that  Mrs.  Timson  and  I are  fond  of  these  things,  has  sent  us 
a nosega3%  that’s  all.” 

I saw  how  it  w^as.  “Augustus  Timson,”  exclaimed  I, 
sternly,  “the  Pimlicoes  have  been  with  you;  if  that  footman 
did  not  wear  the  Pimlico  plush,  ring  the  bell  and  order  me  out : 
if  that  thi-ce-cornered  billet  lying  in  your  snuff-box  has  not  the 
Pimlico  seal  to  it,  never  ask  me  to  dinner  again.” 

“ Well,  if  it  does,'’  says  Mr.  Timson,  who  flushed  as  red  as 
a peoiyy,  “ what  is  the  harm?  Lady  Fanny  Flummeiy  may 
send  flowers  to  her  friends,  I suppose?  The  conservatories  at 
Pimlico  House  are  famous  all  the  world  over,  and  the  Countess 
promised  me  a nosegay  the  veiy  last  time  I dined  there.” 

“ Was  that  the  da}’  when  she  gave  you  a box  of  bonbons  for 
your  darling  little  Ferdinand?” 

“ No,  another  day.” 

“ Or  the  day  when  she  promised  you  her  carringe  for  Epsom 
Races?  ” 

“ No.” 

“ Or  the  day  when  she  hoped  that  her  Lucy  and  your  Bar- 
bara-Jane  might  be  acquainted,  and  sent  to  the  latter  from  the 
former  a new  French  doll  and  tea-things?” 

“ Fiddlestick  I ” roared  out  Augustus  Timson,  Esquire  : “I 
wish  you  wouldn’t  come  bothering  here.  I tell  you  that  Lady 
Pimlico  is  my  friend  — my  friend,  mark  you,  and  I will  allow 
no  man  to  abuse  her  in  my  presence  ; I say  again  no  man ; ” 
wherewith  Mr.  Timson  plunged  both  his  hands  violently  into  his 
breechcs-pockets,  looked  me  in  the  face  sternly,  and  began 
jingling  his  keys  and  shillings  about. 

At  this  juncture  (it  being  about  half-past  three  o’clock  in  the 
afternoon),  a one-horse  chaise  drove  up  to  the  ....  office  (Tim- 
son lives  at  Clapham,  and  comes  in  and  out  in  this  machine)  — 
a one-horse  chaise  drove  up  ; and  amidst  a scuffling  and  crying 
of  small  voices,  good-humored  Mrs.  Timson  bounced  into  the 
room. 

“Here  we  are,  deary,”  said  she,  “we’ll  walk  to  the  Mery- 
weathers  ; and  I’ve  told  Sam  to  be  in  Charles  Street  at  twelve 
with  the  chaise : it  wouldn’t  do,  you  know,  to  come  out  of  the 
Pimlico  box  and  have  the  people  cry,  ‘ Mrs.  Timson’s  carriage  ! ’ 
for  old  Sam  and  the  chaise.” 

Timson,  to  this  loving  and  voluble  address  of  his  lady,  gave 


334 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 


a peevish,  puzzled  look  towards  the  stranger*  as  much  as  to 
sa}^  “ Heh  here.” 

“ La,  Mr.  Smith  ! and  how  do  }^ou  do  ? — So  rude  — I didn’t 
see  }'OU  : but  the  fact  is,  we  are  all  in  such  a bustle  ! Augustus 
has  got  Lady  Pimlico’s  box  for  the  Puritani  to-night,  and  I 
vowed  I’d  take  the  children.” 

Those  3^ou ng  persons  were  evidentlv  from  their  costume 
prepared  for  some  extraordinaiy  festival.  Miss  Barbara-Jane, 
a young  lad}"  of  six  years  old,  in  a pretty  pink  slip  and  white 
muslin,  her  dear  little  poll  bristling  over  with  papers,  to  be  re- 
moved previous  to  the  play  ; while  Master  Ferdinand  had  a pair 
of  nankeens  (I  can  recollect  Timson  in  them  in  the  }’ear  1825 

— a great  buck) , and  white  silk  stockings,  which  belonged  to 
his  mamma.  His  frill  was  very  large  and  very  clean,  and  he 
was  fumbling  perpetually  at  a pair  of  white  kid  gloves,  which 
his  mamma  forbade  him  to  assume  before  the  opera. 

And  “ Look  here  ! ” and  “ Oh,  precious  ! ” and  ‘‘  Oh,  m3' ! ” 
were  uttered  by  these  worth}'  people  as  they  severally  beheld 
the  vast  boiupiet,  into  which  Mrs.  Timson’s  head  flounced,  just 
as  her  husband’s  had  done  before. 

“ I must  have  a green-house  at  the  Snugger}',  that’s  positive, 
Timson,  for  I’m  passionately  fond  of  flowers  — and  how  kind 
of  Lady  Fanny  ! Do  you  know  her  ladyship,  Mr.  Smith?” 

‘‘  Indeed,  Madam,  I don’t  remember  having  ever  spoken  to 
a lord  or  a lady  in  my  life.” 

Timson  smiled  in  a supercilious  way.  Mrs.  Timson  ex- 
claimed, ‘‘  La,  how  odd  ! Augustus  knows  ever  so  many.  Let’s 
see,  there’s  the  Countess  of  Pimlico  and  Lady  Fanny  Flummery  ; 
Lord  Doldrum  (Timson  touched  up  his  travels,  you  know)  ; 
Lord  Gasterton,  Lord  Guttlebury’s  eldest  son;  Lady  Pawpaw 
(they  say  she  ought  not  to  be  visited,  though)  ; Baron  Strum 

— Strom  — Strumpf ” 

AYhat  the  baron’s  name  was  I have  never  been  able  to  learn  ; 
for  here  Timson  burst  out  with  a “ Hold  your  tongue,  Bessy ! ” 
which  stopped  honest  Mrs.  Timson’s  harmless  prattle  altogether, 
and  obliged  that  worthy  woman  to  say  meekly,  “Well,  Gus, 
I did  not  think  there  was  any  harm  in  mentioning  your  ac- 
quaintance.” Good  soul ! it  was  only  because  she  took  pride  in 
her  Timson  that  she  loved  to  enumerate  the  great  names  of  the 
persons  who  did  him  honor.  ^ly  friend  the  editor  was,  in  fact, 
in  a cruel  position,  looking  foolish  before  his  old  acquaintance, 
stricken  in  that  unfortunate  sore  point  in  his  honest,  good- 
humored  character.  The  man  adored  the  aristocracy,  and  had 
that  wonderful  respect  for  a lord  which,  perhaps  the  observant 


THE  FASHIONABLE  AUTHORESS. 


335 


reader  ma}'  have  remarked,  especiall}^  characterizes  men  of 
Timson’s  waj^  of  thinking. 

In  old  da}'s  at  the  club  (we  held  it  in  a small  public-house 
near  the  Coburg  Theatre,  some  of  us  having  free  admissions  to 
that  place  of  amusement,  and  some  of  ns  living  for  convenience 
in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  one  of  his  Majesty’s  prisons 
in  that  quarter)  — in  old  days,  I say,  at  our  spouting  and 
toasted-cheesc  elul),  called  “The  Forum,”  Timson  was  called 
Ib'utus  Timson,  and  not  Augustus,  in  consequence  of  the  lero- 
cious  repul)lieanism  which  characterized  him,  and  his  utter 
scorn  and  hatred  of  a bloated,  do-nothing  aristoerac3\  Ilis 
letters  in  The  Weekly  Sentinel^  signed  “ Lictor,”  must  be  re- 
membered 1)3’  all  our  readers  : he  advocated  the  repeal  of  the 
corn  laws,  the  burning  of  machines,  the  rights  of  labor,  &c.  &c., 
wrote  some  pretty  defences  of  Robespierre,  and  used  serioush' 
to  avow,  when  at  all  in  liejuor,  that,  in  consequence  of  those 
“Lictor”  letters.  Lord  Castlereagli  had  tried  to  have  him 
murdered,  and  thrown  over  Blackfriars  Bridge. 

By  what  means  Augustus  Timson  rose  to  his  present  ex- 
alted position  it  is  needless  here  to  state  ; sullice  it,  that  in  two 
3'ears  he  was  completely  bound  over  neck-and-heels  to  the 
bloodthirsty  aristocrats,  hereditary  tyrants,  &c.  One  evening 
he  was  asked  to  dine  with  a secretaiy  of  the  Treasuiy  (the 
....  is  Ministerial,  and  has  been  so  these  fort3’-nine  3’ears)  ; 
at  the  house  of  that  secretaiy  of  the  Treasuiy  he  met  a lord’s 
son : walking  with  Mrs.  Timson  in  the  Park  next  Sunday,  that 
lord’s  son  saluted  him.  Timson  was  from  that  moment  a slave, 
had  his  coats  made  at  the  west  end,  cut  his  wife’s  relations 
(the3’  are  dealers  in  marine-stores,  and  live  at  AYapping) , and 
had  his  name  put  dowm  at  two  Clubs. 

Who  was  the  lord’s  son?  Lord  Pimlico’s  son,  to  be  sure, 
the  Honorable  Frederick  Flu  mine ly,  wdio  married  Lad3’  Faniy 
F0X3’,  daughter  of  Pitt  Castlereagli,  second  Earl  of  Reynard, 
Kilbrush  Castle,  count3’  Kildare.  The  earl  had  been  ambassa- 
dor in  T4  : Mr.  Flummery,  his  attache  : he  was  twent3’-one  at 
that  time,  with  the  sweetest  tuft  on  his  chin  in  the  world. 
Lad3'  Fanii3’  was  only  foiir-and-twent3’,  just  jilted  1)3’  Prince 
Scoronconcolo,  the  horrid  man  who  had  married  Miss  Solomon- 
son  with  a plum.  Faniw  had  nothing  — Frederick  had  about 
seven  thousand  pounds  less.  What  better  could  the  3"oung 
things  do  than  many  ? Many  they  did,  and  in  the  most  deli- 
cious secrecy.  Old  Re3’uard  was  charmed  to  have  an  opportu- 
nity of  breaking  with  one  of  his  daughters  for  ever,  and  only 
longed  for  an  occasion  never  to  forgive  the  other  nine. 


336 


CjHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


A wit  of  the  Prince’s  time,  who  inherited  and  transmitted  to 
his  children  a vast  fortune  in  genius,  was  cautioned  on  his 
marriage  to  be  very  economical.  “Economical!”  said  he; 
“ ni}^  wife  has  nothing,  and  I have  nothing:  I suppose  a man 
can’t  live  under  that ! ” Our  interesting  pair,  by  judiciously 
employing  the  same  capital,  managed,  }’ear  after  }’ear,  to  live 
very  comfortably,  until,  at  last,  the}^  were  received  into  Pimlico 
House  by  the  dowager  (who  has  it  for  her  life),  where  the}'  live 
very  magnificently.  Lady  Fanny  gives  the  most  magnificent 
entertainment  in  London,  has  the  most  magnificent  equipage, 
and  a very  fine  husband  ; who  has  his  equipage  as  fine  as  her 
ladyship’s  ; his  seat  in  the  omnibus,  while  her  lad}'ship  is  in 
the  second  tier.  They  sa}^  he  plays  a good  deal  — a}',  and 
pays,  too,  when  he  loses. 

And  how,  pr’ythee?  Her  ladyship  is  a Fashionable  Au- 
thoress. She  has  been  at  this  game  for  fifteen  }'ears  ; during 
which  period  she  has  published  forty-five  novels,  edited  twenty- 
seven  new  magazines,  and  I don’t  knov/  how  mair/  annuals, 
besides  publishing  poems,  plays,  desultoiy  thoughts,  memoirs, 
recollections  of  travel,  and  pamphlets  without  number.  Going 
one  day  to  church,  a lady,  whom  I knewb}*  her  Leghorn  bonnet 
and  red  ribbons,  ruche  with  poppies  and  marigolds,  brass  fer- 
roniere,  great  red  hands,  black  silk  gown,  thick  shoes,  and 
black  silk  stockings  ; a lady,  whom  I knew,  1 say,  to  be  a devo- 
tional cook,  made  a bob  to  me  just  as  the  psalm  struck  up,  and 
offered  me  a share  of  her  hymn-book.  It  was,  — 

HEAVENLY  CHORDS; 

A COLLECTION  OP 

SACRED  STRAINS, 

SELECTED,  COMPOSED,  AND  EDITED,  BY  THE 

LADY  FRANCES  JULIANA  FLUMMERY. 

— Being  simply  a collection  of  heavenly  chords  robbed  from 
the  lyres  of  Watts,  Wesle}',  Brady  and  Tate,  &c.  ; and  of 
sacred  strains  from  the  rare  collection  of  Sternhold  and  Hop- 
kins. Out  of  this,  cook  and  I sang ; and  it  is  amazing  how 
much  our  fervor  was  increased  by  thinking  that  our  devotions 
were  directed  by  a lady  whose  name  was  in  the  Red  Book. 

The  thousands  of  pages  that  Lady  Fanny  Flummery  has 
covered  with  ink  exceed  all  belief.  Y'ou  must  have  remarked. 
Madam,  in  respect  of  this  literary  fecundity,  that  your  amiable 
sex  possesses  vastl}'  greater  capabilities  than  we  do  ; and  that 


THE  FASniOXABLE  AUTHORESS. 


337 


while  man  is  [)ainfully  laboring  over  a letter  of  two  sides,  a 
lady  will  produce  a dozen  pages,  crossed,  dashed,  and  so 
beantifnlly  neat  and  close,  as  to  be  wellnigh  invisible.  The 
readiest  of  ready  pens  has  Lady  Fann}^;  her  Pegasus  gallops 
over  hot-pressed  satin  so  as  to  distance  all  gentlemen  riders  : 
like  Camilla,  it  scours  the  plain  — of  Bath,  and  never  seems 
punished  or  fatigued  ; only  it  runs  so  fast  that  it  often  leaves 
all  sense  behind  it ; and  there  it  goes  on,  on,  scribble,  scribble, 
scribble,  never  flagging  until  it  arrives  at  that  fair  winning-post 
on  which  is  written  “ finis,”  or,  “the  end;”  and  shows  that 
the  course,  whether  it  be  of  novel,  annual,  poem,  or  what  not, 
is  complete. 

Now,  the  author  of  these  pages  doth  not  pretend  to  describe 
the  inward  thoughts,  wa^'s,  and  manner  of  being,  of  my  Lad}" 
Fanny,  having  made  before  that  humiliating  confession,  that 
lords  and  ladies  are  personally  unknown  to  him  ; so  that  all 
milliners,  butchers’  ladies,  dashing  young  clerks,  and  appren- 
tices, or  other  persons  who  are  anxious  to  cultivate  a knowledge 
of  the  aristocracy,  had  better  skip  over  this  article  altogether. 
But  he  hath  heard  it  whispered,  from  pretty  good  authority, 
that  the  manners  and  customs  of  these  men  and  women  resem- 
ble, in  no  inconsiderable  degree,  the  habits  and  usages  of  other 
men  and  women,  whose  names  are  unrecorded  by  Debrett. 
Granting  this,  and  that  Lady  Fanny  is  a woman  pretty  much 
like  another,  the  philosophical  reader  will  be  content  that  we 
rather  consider  her  ladyship  in  her  public  capacity,  and  examine 
her  influence  upon  mankind  in  general. 

Her  person,  then,  being  thus  put  out  of  the  way,  her  works, 
too.  need  not  be  very  carefully  sifted  and  criticised  ; for  what 
is  the  use  of  peering  into  a millstone,  or  making  calculations 
about  the  figure  0?  The  woman  has  not,  in  fact,  the  slightest 
influence  upon  literature  for  good  or  for  evil : there  are  a certain 
number  of  fools  whom  she  catches  in  her  flimsy  traps  ; and  why 
not?  They  are  made  to  be  humbugged,  or  how  should  we  live? 
Lady  Flummery  writes  everything ; that  is,  nothing.  Her 
poetry  is  mere  wind  ; her  novels,  stark  nought ; her  philosophy, 
sheer  vacancy : how  should  she  do  any  better  than  she  does  ? 
how  could  she  succeed  if  she  did  do  any  better?  If  she  did 
write  well,  she  would  not  be  Lady  Flummery ; she  would  not 
be  praised  by  Timson  and  the  critics,  because  she  would  be  an 
honest  woman,  and  would  not  bribe  them.  Nay,  she  would 
probably  be  written  down  by  Timson  and  Co.,  because,  being 
an  honesjt  woman,  she  utterly  despised  them  and  their  craft. 

We  have  said  what  she  writes  for  the  most  part.  Individ- 


338 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


iially,  she  will  throw  off  any  number  of  novels  that  Messrs. 
Soaj)  and  Diddle  will  pay  for ; and  collective!}',  by  tlie  aid  of 
self  and  friends,  scores  of  “ Lyrics  of  Loveliness,”  “ Beams  of 
Beauty,”  -M^earls  of  Purity,”  &c.  Who  does  not  recollect  the 
success  which  her  ‘‘  Pearls  of  the  Peerage  ” had?  She  is  going 
to  do  the  “ Beauties  of  the  Baronetage;”  then  we  shall  have 
the  “ Daughters  of  the  Dustmen,”  or  some  such  other  collection 
of  portraits.  Lad}'  Fhnnmery  has  around  her  a score  of  literary 
gentlemen,  who  are  bound  to  her,  body  and  soul : give  them  a 
dinner,  a smile  from  an  opera-box,  a wave  of  the  hand  in 
Rotten  Row,  and  they  are  hers,  neck  and  heels.  Vides^  mijili^ 
&c.  See,  my  son,  with  what  a very  small  dose  of  humbug 
men  are  to  be  bought.  I know  many  of  these  individuals  : 
there  is  my  friend  Lather,  an  immense,  pudgy  man:  I saw 
him  one  day  walking  through  Bond  Street  in  company  with  an 
enormous  ruby  breastpin.  “Mac!”  shouted  jour  humble 
servant,  “that  is  a Flummery  ruby;”  and  Mac  hated  and 
cursed  us  ever  after.  Presently  came  little  Fitch,  the  artist ; 
he  was  rigged  out  in  an  illuminated  velvet  waistcoat  — Flum- 
mery again  — “There’s  only  one  like  it  in  town,”  whispered 
F’itch  to  me  conlidentially,  “ and  Flummery  has  that.’  To  be 
sure,  Fitch  had  given,  in  return,  half  a dozen  of  the  prettiest 
drawings  in  the  world.  “ I wouldn’t  charge  for  them,  you 
know,”  he  says  : “ for,  hang  it.  Lady  Flummery  is  my  friend.” 
Oh,  Fitch,  Fitch  ! 

Fifty  more  instances  could  be  adduced  of  her  ladyship’s 
w'ays  of  bribery.  She  bribes  the  critics  to  praise  her,  and  the 
writers  to  write  for  her ; and  the  public  flocks  to  her  as  it  will 
to  any  other  tradesman  who  is  properly  puffed.  Out  comes 
the  book  ; as  for  its  merits,  we  may  allow,  cheerfully,  that 
Lady  Flummery  has  no  lack  of  that  natural  espi'it  which  every 
woman  possesses  ; but  here  praise  stops.  For  the  style,  she 
does  not  know  her  own  language ; but,  in  revenge,  has  a 
smatti'ring  of  half  a dozen  others.  She  interlards  her  works 
with  fear  fid  (jiiotations  from  the  French,  fiddle-faddle  extracts 
from  Italian  0[)eras,  German  phrases  fiercely  mutilated,  and  a 
scrap  or  two  of  bad  Spanish  : and  upon  the  strength  of  these 
murders,  she  calls  herself  an  authoress.  To  be  sure  there  is 
no  such  word  as  authoress.  If  any  young  nobleman  or  gentle- 
man of  Eton  College,  when  called  upon  to  indite  a copy  of 
vei'scs  in  praise  of  Sappho,  or  the  Countess  of  Dash,  or  Lady 
Charlotte  What-d’yc-call-’em,  or  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Some- 
body, should  fondly  imagine  that  he  might  apply  to  those  fair 
creatures  the  title  of  aucirix  — I pity  that  young  nobleman’s  or 


THE  FASHIONABLE  AUTHORESS. 


339 


gentlciinaii’s  case.  Doctor  VFordsworth  and  assistants  would 
swish  that  error  out  of  liim  in  a way  that  need  not  here  be 
mentioned.  Ivcineinber  it  henceforth,  ye  writeresses  — there  is 
no  such  word  as  authoress.  Auctor^  Madam,  is  the  word. 
‘•'■Optima  ta  proprii  nominis  auctor  eris  A'  which,  of  course, 
means  that  you  are,  b}"  your  proper  name,  an  author,  not  an 
authoress  : the  line  is  in  Ainsworth’s  Dictionaiy,  where  any- 
body may  see  it. 

This  point  is  settled  then  : there  is  no  such  word  as  author- 
ess. But  what  of  that?  Are  authorc'sses  to  l>e  1‘ouud  by  the 
rules  of  grammar?  Tlic  sup[)osition  is  al)surd.  We  don’t 
expect  them  to  know  their  own  hniguage  ; we  [)refer  rather  the 
little  gracel’ul  pranks  and  lilH'i’ties  they  talvc  with  it.  When, 
for  instance,  a celebrated  authoress,  who  wrote  a Diaress,  calls 
somebody  the  prototyi)e  of  his  own  father,  we  feel  an  obligation 
to  her  ladyshi[) ; the  language  feels  an  obligation  ; it  has  a 
charm  and  a [)rivilege  with  which  it  was  ne\'er  before  endowed : 
and  it  is  manifest,  that  if  we  can  call  ourselves  antetypes  of 
our  grandmothers  — can  })ro[)hesy  what  we  had  for  dinner  jxs- 
terday,  and  so  on,  we  get  into  a new  range  of  thought,  and 
discover  sweet  regions  of  fancy  and  [)oetry,  of  which  the  mind 
hath  never  even  had  a notion  until  now. 

It  may  be  then  considered  as  certain  that  an  authoress 
ought  not  to  know  her  own  tongue.  Literature  and  politics 
have  this  privilege  in  common,  that  any  ignoramus  may  excel 
in  both.  No  apprenticeship  is  required,  that  is  certain  ; and  if 
any  gentleman  doubts,  let  us  refer  him  to  the  popular  works  of 
the  present  day,  where,  if  he  find  a particle  of  scholarship, 
or  any  acquaintance  with  any  books  in  any  language,  or  if  he 
be  disgusted  b}'  any  absurd,  stiff,  old-fashioned  notions  of 
grammatical  propriet}^  we  are  read}'  to  quality  our  assertion. 
A friend  of  ours  came  to  us  the  other  day  in  great  trouble.  His 
dear  little  boy,  who  had  been  for  some  months  attache  to  the 
stables  of  Mr.  Tilbury’s  establishment,  took  a fancy  to  the  cor- 
' duroy  breeches  of  some  other  gentleman  employed  in  the  same 
emporium  — appropriated  them,  and  afterwards  disposed  of 
them  for  a trilling  sum  to  a relation  — I believe  his  uncle. 
For  this  harmless  freak,  poor  Sam  was  absolutely  seized,  tried 
at  Clerkenwell  Sessions,  and  condemned  to  six  months’  useless 
rotatory  labor  at  the  Flouse  of  Correction.  ‘ ' The  poor  fellow 
was  bad  enough  before,  sir,”  said  his  father,  confiding  in  our 
philanthropy:  “he  picked  up  such  a deal  of  slang  among  the 
stable-boys  : but  if  you  could  hear  him  since  he  came  from 
the  mill ! he  knocks  you  down  with  it,  sir.  I am  afraid,  sir, 


340 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


of  his  becoming  a regular  prig : for  though  he’s  a ’cute  chap, 
can  read  and  write,  and  is  mighty  smart  and  hand}^,  yet  no 
one  will  take  him  into  service,  on  account  of  that  business  of 
the  breeches  ! ” 

“What,  sir!”  exclaimed  we,  amazed  at  the  man’s  simpli- 
cit}’’ ; “ such  a son,  and  3^011  don’t  know  what  to  do  with  him  I 
a ’cute  fellow,  who  can  write,  wdio  has  been  educated  in  a 
stable-3’ard,  and  has  had  six  months’  polish  in  a universifc}’  — I 
mean  a prison  — and  3'ou  don’t  know  what  to  do  with  him? 
Make  a fashionable  novelist  of  him,  and  be  hanged  to  3'OU ! ” 
And  proud  am  I to  sa}'  that  that  3’oung  man,  eveiy  evening, 
after  he  comes  liome  from  his  work  (he  has  taken  to  street- 
sweeping in  the  da3’,  and  I don’t  advise  him  to  relinquish  a 
certainty)  — proud  am  I to  sa}'  that  he  devotes  ever}'  evening 
to  literaiy  composition,  and  is  coming  out  with  a novel,  in 
numbers,  of  the  most  fashionable  kind. 

This  little  episode  is  only  given  for  the  sake  of  example  ; 
par  exemple^  as  our  authoress  would  sa}’,  who  delights  in  French 
of  the  veiy  worst  kind.  The  public  likes  only  the  extremes  of 
societv,  and  votes  mediocrit}'  vulgar.  From  the  Author  the}^ 
will  take  nothing  but  Fleet  Ditch  ; from  the  Authoress,  onl}' 
the  very  finest  of  rose-water.  I have  read  so  many  of  her  lad}'- 
ship’s  novels,  that,  egad  ! now  I don’t  care  for  anything  under 
a marquis.  Wly  the  deuce  should  we  listen  to  the  intrigues, 
the  misfortunes,  the  virtues,  and  conversations  of  a couple  of 
countesses,  for  instance,  when  we  can  have  duchesses  for  our 
mone}'?  What’s  a baronet?  pish!  pish!  that  great  coarse  red 
fist  in  his  scutcheon  turns  me  sick  ! AVhat’s  a baron?  a fellow 
with  011I3'  one  more  ball  than  a pawnbroker ; and,  upon  m3' 
conscience,  just  as  common.  Dear  Lady  Flummeiy,  in  3'our 
next  novel,  give  us  no  more  of  these  low'  people  ; nothing  under 
strawberry  leaves,  for  the  mere}'  of  heaven ! Suppose,  now, 
3'OU  write  us 

ALBERT; 

OR, 

WHISPERINGS  AT  WINDSOR. 

BY  THE  LADY  FRANCES  FLUMMERY. 

There  is  a subject  — fashionable  circles,  curious  revelations, 
exclusive  excitement,  &c.  To  be  sure,  3’ou  must  here  introduce 
a viscount,  and  that  is  sadl}'  vulgar ; but  w'e  will  pass  him  for 
the  sake  of  the  ministerial  which  is  genteel.  Thou 

3’OU  might  do  “Leopold;  or,  the  Bride  of  Neuill}' ; ” “The 


THE  FASHIONABLE  AUTHORESS. 


341 


Victim  of  Wiirtemberg ; ” “Olga;  or,  the  Autocrat’s  Daugh- 
ter” (a  capital  title)  ; Henri ; or,  Rome  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century ; ” we  can  fanc}^  the  book,  and  a sweet  paragrapli 
about  it  in  Timson’s  paper. 

“ Henri,  b}^  Lady  Frances  Flummery  — Henri!  Who  can 
lie  be?  a little  bird  whispers  in  our  ear,  that  the  gifted  and 
talented  Sappho  of  our  hemisphere  has  discovered  some  curious 
particulars  in  the  life  of  a certain  young  chevalier,  whose  appear- 
ance at  Rome  has  so  frightened  the  court  of  the  Tu-l-ries. 
Henri  de  B-rd — ux  is  of  an  age  when  the  young  god  can  shoot 
his  darts  into  the  bosom  with  fatal  accuracy  ; and  if  the  Mar- 
chesina  degli  Spinachi  ( whose  portrait  our  lovely  authoress  has 
sung  with  a kindred  hand)  be  as  beauteous  as  she  is  represented 
(and  as  all  who  have  visited  in  the  exclusive  circles  of  the 
Eternal  City  sa}’  she  is),  no  wonder  at  her  effect  upon  the  Pr-nce. 
Verbuni  sap.  We  hear  that  a few  copies  are  still  remaining. 
The  enterprising  publishers,  Messrs.  Soap  and  Diddle,  have 
announced,  we  see,  several  other  works  by  the  same  accom- 
plished pen.” 

This  paragraph  makes  its  appearance,  in  small  t}^pe,  in  the 
. . . . b}"  the  side,  perhaps,  of  a disinterested  recommendation 
of  bears’-grease,  or  some  remarks  on  the  extraordinaiy  cheap- 
ness of  plate  in  Cornhill.  Well,  two  or  three  days  after,  my 
dear  Timson,  who  has  been  asked  to  dinner,  writes  in  his  own 
hand,  and  causes  to  be  printed  in  the  largest  type,  an  article  to 
the  following  effect : — 


“HENRI. 

“by  lady  f.  flummery. 

“ This  is  another  of  the  graceful  evergreens  which  the  fair 
fingers  of  Lad}^  Famyy  Flummeiy  are  continually  strewing  upon 
our  path.  At  once  profound  and  caustic,  truthful  and  pas- 
sionate, we  are  at  a loss  whether  most  to  admire  the  manly 
grandeur  of  her  lad3'ship’s  mind,  or  the  exquisite  nj’mph-like 
delicac}"  of  it.  Strange  power  of  fanc}’  I Sweet  enchantress, 
that  rules  the  mind  at  will : stirring  up  the  utmost  depths  of  it 
into  passion  and  storm,  or  wreathing  and  dimpling  its  calm  sur- 
face with  countless  summer  smiles.  As  a great  Bard  of  old 
Time  has  expressed  it,  what  do  w^e  not  owe  to  woman? 

“What  do  we  not  owe  her?  More  love,  more  happiness, 
more  calm  of  vexed  spirit,  more  truthful  aid,  and  pleasant 


342 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


counsel ; in  joy,  more  delicnte  sympath}’ ; in  sorrow,  more  kind 
coinpanioiisliip.  We  look  into  her  clieeiy  e3^es,  and,  in  those 
wells  of  love,  care  drowns  ; we  listen  to  her  siren  voice,  and,  in 
that  balmy  music,  banished  hopes  come  winging  to  the  breast 
again,” 


This  goes  on  for  about  three-quarters  of  a column  : I don’t 
pretend  to  understand  it ; but  with  flowers,  angels,  Words- 
worth’s poems,  and  the  old  dramatists,  one  can  never  be  wrong, 
I think  ; and  though  J have  written  the  above  paragraphs  m}^- 
self,  and  don’t  understand  a word  of  them,  1 can’t,  upon  my 
conscience,  help  thinking  that  the}^  are  mighty  pretty  writing. 
After,  then,  this  has  gone  on  for  about  three-quarters  of  a 
column  (Timson  does  it  in  spare  minutes,  and  fits  it  to  any 
book  that  Lad}"  Fanii}’  brings  out),  he  proceeds  to  particularize, 
thus : — 

“ The  griding  excitement  which  thrills  through  every  fibre 
of  the  soul  as  we  peruse  these  passionate  pages,  is  almost  too 
painful  to  bear.  Nevertheless,  one  drains  the  draughts  of 
l)oesy  to  the  dregs,  so  deliciously  intoxicating  is  its  nature. 
We  defy  any  man  who  begins  these  volumes  to  quit  them  ere 
he  has  perused  each  line.  The  [)lot  may  be  briefly  told  as 
thus  : — llenri,  an  exiled  prince  of  Franconia  (it  is  eas}'  to  un- 
derstand the  flimsy  allegory),  arrives  at  Rome,  and  is  presented 
to  the  sovereign  Fontilf.  At  a feast,  given  in  his  honor  at  the 
ATitican,  a dancing  girl  (the  loveliest  creation  that  ever  issued 
from  poet’s  brain)  is  introduced,  and  exhibits  some  specimens 
of  her  art.  The  .young  prince  is  instantaneousl.y  smitten  with 
the  charms  of  the  Saltatrice  ; he  breathes  into  her  ear  the  accents 
of  his  love,  and  is  listened  to  with  favor.  He  has,  however,  a 
rival,  and  a powerful  one.  The  Pope  has  alread.y  cast  his  eye 
upon  the  Apulian  maid,  and  burns  with  lawless  passion.  One 
of  the  grandest  scenes  ever  writ,  occurs  betw'ecn  the  rivals. 
Tdie  Pope  offers  to  Castanetta  every  temptation  ; he  will  even 
resign  his  crown  and  marry  her ; but  she  refuses.  The  prince 
can  make  no  such  oflers  ; he  cannot  wed  her : ‘ The  blood  of 
IJorbone,’  he  says,  ‘ may  not  be  thus  misallied.’  He  determines 
to  avoid  her.  In  despair,  she  throws  herself  off  the  Tarpeian 
rock  ; and  the  Pope  becomes  a maniac.  Such  is  an  outline  of 
this  tragic  tale. 

“ Besides  this  fabulous  and  melancholv  part  of  the  narrative, 
which  is  unsurpassed,  much  is  written  in  the  gay  and  sparkling 


THE  FASIITOXAELE  AUTIIOEESS. 


343 


style  for  wliicli  our  lovely  author  is  unrivalled.  The  sketch  of 
the  Marchesina  degli  Spinachi  and  her  lover,  the  Duca  di  Gam- 
mom,  is  delicious ; and  the  intrigue  between  the  beautiful 
Pi'incess  Kalbsbraten  and  Count  Bouterbrod  is  exquisitel}' 
painted  ; everybody,  of  course,  knows  who  these  characters  are. 
The  discovery  of  the  manner  in  which  Kartoffeln,  the  Saxon 
envoy,  poisons  the  princess’s  dishes,  is  onl3^  a graceful  and  real 
repetition  of  a storv  which  was  agitated  throughout  all  the 
diplomatic  circles  last  year.  Schinken,  the  Westphalian,  must 
not  be  forgotten  ; nor  Olla,  the  Spanish  S[)y.  llow  does  Lad\" 
Fanny  Flummery,  poet  as  she  is,  })Ossess  a sense  of  the  ridicu- 
lous and  a keenness  of  perception  which  would  do  honor  to  a 
Rabelais  or  a Rochefoucauld?  To  those  who  ask  this  question, 
we  have  one  reply,  and  that  an  example  : — Not  among  women, 
’tis  true  ; foi’  till  the  Lady  Fanny  came  among  us,  woman  never 
soared  so  high.  Not  among  women,  indeed  ! — but  in  compar- 
ing her  to  tliat  great  spirit  for  whom  our  veneration  is  highest 
and  holiest,  we  otfer  no  dishonor  to  his  shrine  : — in  saying  that 
he  who  wrote  of  Romeo  and  Desdemona  might  have  drawn 
Castanetta  and  Enrico,  we  utter  but  the  truthful  expressions  of 
our  hearts  ; in  asserting  that  so  long  as  Siiakspeare  lives,  so 
long  will  Flummery  endure  ; in  declaring  that  he  who  rules  in 
all  hearts,  and  over  all  spirits  and  all  climes,  has  found  a con- 
genial spirit,  we  do  but  justice  to  Lad}’  Faiiii}’ — justice  to  him 
who  sleeps  b}’  Avon  ! ” 

With  which  we  had  better,  perhaps,  conclude.  Our  object 
has  been,  in  descanting  upon  the  Fashionable  Authoress,  to 
point  out  the  influence  which  her  writing  possesses  over  society, 
rather  than  to  criticise  her  life.  The  former  is  quite  harmless  ; 
and  we  don’t  pretend  to  be  curious  about  the  latter.  The 
'woman  herself  is  not  so  blamable  ; it  is  the  silly  people  who 
cringe  at  her  feet  that  do  the  mischief,  and,  gulled  themselves, 
gull  the  most  gullible  of  publics.  Think  you,  O Tirason,  that 
her  ladyship  asks  you  for  }’our  beaux  yeux  or  3’our  wit?  Fool ! 
}’ou  do  think  so,  or  tiy  and  think  so  ; and  vet  you  know  she  loves 
not  you,  but  the  . . . .newspaper.  Think,  little  Fitch,  in  vour 
fine  wmistcoat,  how  dearW  }’ou  have  paid  for  it ! Think, 
M‘Lather,  how  many  smirks,  and  lies,  and  columns  of  good 
three-halfpence-a-line  matter  that  big  garnet  pin  has  cost  you  ! 
the  woman  laughs  at  you,  man  ! you,  who  fanc}’  that  she  is 
smitten  with  3’ou  — laughs  at  3’our  absurd  pretensions,  your 
way  of  eating  fish  at  dinner,  your  great  hands,  your  e3"es,  your 
whiskers,  your  coat,  and  3’our  strange  north-countiy  twang. 


344 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


Down  with  this  Delilah  ! Avaunt,  O Circe  ! giver  of  poisonous 
feeds.  To  3’our  natural  haunts,  ye  gentlemen  of  the  press  ! if 
bachelors,  frequent  3’our  taverns,  and  be  content.  Better  is 
Sall3’  the  waiter,  and  the  first  cut  of  the  joint,  than  a dinner  of 
four  courses,  and  humbug  therewith.  Ye  who  are  married,  go 
to  3’our  homes  ; dine  not  with  those  persons  who  scorn  your 
wives.  Go  not  forth  to  parties,  that  3^e  may  act  Tom  Fool  for 
the  amusement  of  my  lord  and  m3’  lad3’ ; but  pla3^  your  natural 
follies  among  your  natural  friends.  Do  this  for  a few  3’ears, 
and  the  Fashionable  Authoress  is  extinct.  O Jove,  what  a 
prospect ! She,  too,  has  retreated  to  her  own  natural  calling, 
being  as  much  out  of  place  in  a book  as  you,  m3’  dear  M‘Lather, 
in  a drawing-room.  Let  milliners  look  up  to  her;  let  Howell 
and  James  swear  by  her  ; let  simpering  dandies  caper  about  her 
car ; let  her  write  poeti’3’  if  she  likes,  but  onl3’  for  the  most 
exclusive  circles;  let  mantua-makers  puff  her  — but  not  men: 
let  such  things  be,  and  the  Fashionable  Authoress  is  no  more  ! 
Blessed,  blessed  thought ! No  more  fiddle-faddle  novels ! no 
more  namb3’- pamb3’  poetiy ! no  more  fribble  “Blossoms  of 
Loveliness  ! ” When  will  3’ou  arnve,  O happy  Golden  Age? 


THE  ARTISTS. 


It  is  confidentl}’  stated  that  there  was  once  a time  when  the 
quarter  of  Soho  was  thronged  by  the  fashion  of  London.  Many 
wide  streets  are  there  in  the  neighliorliood,  stretching  cheer- 
fully towards  Middlesex  IIos})ital  in  the  north,  bounded  l)y 
Dean  Street  in  the  west,  where  the  lords  and  ladies  of  Wil- 
liam’s time  used  to  dwell,  — till  in  (^ueen  Anne’s  time,  Blooms- 
buiy  put  Soho  out  of  fashion,  and  Great  Russell  Street  became 
the  pink  of  the  mode. 

Both  these  quarters  of  the  town  have  submitted  to  the  awful 
rule  of  nature,  and  are  now  to  be  seen  undergoing  the  dire 
process  of  deca}’.  Fashion  has  deserted  Soho,  and  left  her  in 
her  gaunt,  lonely 'old  age.  The  houses  have  a vast,  ding}’, 
mould}’,  dowager  look.  No  more  beaux,  in  mighty  periwigs, 
ride  by  in  gilded  clattering  coaches  ; no  more  lackeys  accom- 
pany them,  bearing  torches,  and  shouting  for  precedence.  A 
solitary  policeman  paces  these  solitary  streets,  — the  only 
dandy  in  the  neignborhood.  You  hear  the  milkman  yelling 
his  milk  with  a startling  distinctness,  and  the  clack  of  a ser- 
vant-girl’s pattens  sets  people  a-staring  from  the  windows. 

With  Bloomsbury  we  have  here  nothing  to  do  ; but  as  gen- 
teel stock-brokers  inhabit  the  neighborhood  of  Regent’s  Park, 
— as  lawyers  have  taken  possession  of  Russell  Square,  — so 
Artists  have  seized  upon  the  desolate  quarter  of  Soho.  They 
are  to  be  found  in  great  numbers  in  Berners  Street.  Up  to 
the  present  time,  naturalists  have  never  been  able  to  account 
for  this  mystery  of  their  residence.  What  has  a painter  to 
do  with  Middlesex  Hospital?  He  is  to  be  found  in  Charlotte 
Street,  Fitzroy  Square.  And  why?  Philosophy  cannot  tell, 
any  more  than  why  milk  is  found  in  a cocoa-nut. 


34G 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


Look  at  N(‘wmaii  Street.  Has  earth,  in  any  dismal  corner 
of  her  great  round  face,  a spot  more  desperately  gloomy  ? The 
windows  are  spotted  with  wafers,  holding  up  ghasth-  bills,  that 
tell  you  the  house  is  “To  Let.”  Nobod}^  walks  there  — not 
even  an  old-clothes-man  ; the  first  inhabited  house  has  bars  to 
the  windows,  and  bears  the  name  of  “ Ahasuerus,  officer  to  the 
Sheriff  of  Middlesex  ; ” and  here,  above  all  places,  must  paint- 
ers take  up  their  quarters,  — day  by  da}^  must  these  reckless 
people  pass  Ahasuerus’s  treble  gate.  There  was  m3'  poor  friend, 
Tom  Tickner  (who  did  those  sweet  things  for  “ The  Book  of 
Beauty”).  Tom,  who  could  not  pay  his  washerwoman,  lived 
opposite  the  bailiffs  ; and  could  see  eveiy  miserable  debtor,  or 
greas}'  Jew  writ-bearer  that  went  in  or  out  of  his  door.  The 
street  begins  with  a bailiff’s,  and  ends  with  a hospital.  I 
wonder  how  men  live  in  it,  and  are  decently  cheerful,  with  this 
gloomy,  double-barrelled  moral  pushed  perpetually  into  their 
faces.  Here,  however,  the}^  persist  in  living,  no  one  knows 
Avly  ; owls  ma}'  still  be  found  roosting  in  Netle}'  Abbe3',  and  a 
few  Arabs  are  to  be  seen  at  the  present  minute  in  Palmyra. 

The  ground-floors  of  the  houses  where  painters  live  are 
mostly  make-believe  shops,  black  empt}'  warehouses,  contain- 
ing fabulous  goods.  There  is  a sedan-chair  opposite  a house 
in  Rathbone  Place,  that  I have  m3’self  seen  every  da}'  for  fort}'- 
three  }’ears.  The  house  has  commonl}'  a huge  india-rubber- 
colored  door,  with  a couple  of  glistening  brass-plates  and  bells. 
A portrait-painter  lives  on  the  first  floor ; a great  historical 
genius  inhabits  the  second.  Remark  the  first-floor’s  middle 
drawing-room  window  ; it  is  four  feet  higher  than  its  two  com- 
panions, and  has  taken  a fancy  to  peep  into  the  second-floor 
front.  So  much  for  the  outward  appearance  of  their  habita- 
tions, and  for  the  quarters  in  which  the}'  commonly  dwell. 
They  seem  to  love  solitude,  and  their  mighty  spirits  rejoice 
in  vastness  and  gloomy  ruin. 

I don’t  say  a word  here  about  those  geniuses  who  frequent 
the  thoroughfares  of  the  town,  and  have  picture-frames  con- 
taining a little  gallery  of  miniature  peers,  beauties,  and  general 
officers,  in  the  Quadrant,  the  passages  about  St.  Martin’s  Lane, 
the  Strand,  and  Cheapside.  Lord  Lyndhurst  is  to  be  seen  in 
many  of  these  gratis  exhibitions  — Lord  Lyndhurst  cribbed 
from  Chalon  ; Lady  Peel  from  Sir  Thomas  ; Miss  Croker  from 
the  same  ; the  Duke,  from  ditto ; an  original  officer  in  the 
Spanish  Legion  ; a colonel  or  so,  of  the  Bunhill-Row  Fenci- 
bles  ; a lady  on  a yellow  sofa,  with  four  children  in  little  caps 
and  blue  ribbons.  We  have  all  of  us  seen  these  pretty  pictures, 


THE  ARTISTS. 


347 


and  are  aware  that  our  own  features  ina>'  be  “ done  in  this 
style.”  Then  there  is  the  man  on  the  chain-i)i('r  at  Bi-ighton, 
who  pares  out  your  likeness  in  sticking-plaster;  there  is  Miss 
Croke,  or  Miss  Runt,  who  gives  lessons  in  Poonah-painting, 
japanning,  or  mezzotinting ; Miss  Stump,  who  attends  ladies’ 
schools  with  large  chalk  heads  from  Le  Brim  or  the  Cartoons  ; 
Rubbery,  who  instructs  young  gentlemen’s  establishments  in 
pencil;  and  Sepio,  of  the  Water-Color  Society,  who  paints 
before  eight  pupils  daih',  at  a guinea  an  hour,  keeping  his  own 
drawings  for  himself. 

All  these  persons,  as  the  most  indifferent  reader  must  see, 
equall}'  belong  to  the  tribe  of  Artists  (the  last  not  more  than 
the  first),  and  in  an  article  like  this  should  be  mentioned 
properly.  But  though  this  paper  has  been  extended  from 
eight  pages  to  sixteen,  not  a volume  would  sutlice  to  do  jus- 
tice to  the  biographies  of  the  persons  above  mentioned.  Think 
of  the  superb  Sepio,  in  a light-blue  satin  cravat,  and  a light- 
brown  coat,  and  yellow  kids,  tripping  daintil\'  from  Grosvenor 
Square  to  Gloucester  Place,  a small  sugar-loaf  boy  following, 
who  carries  his  morocco  portfolio.  Sepio  scents  liis  handker- 
chief, curls  his  hair,  and  wears,  on  a great  coarse  fist  a large 
emerald  ring  that  one  of  his  pupils  gave  him.  He  would  not 
smoke  a cigar  for  the  world  ; he  is  alwa}’s  to  be  found  at  the 
Opera  ; and,  gods  ! how  he  grins,  and  waggles  his  head  about, 
as  Lady  Flummery  nods  to  him  from  her  box. 

He  goes  to  at  least  six  great  parties  in  the  season.  At  the 
houses  where  he  teaches,  he  has  a faint  hope  that  he  is  received 
as  an  equal,  and  propitiates  scornful  footmen  by  absurd  dona- 
tions of  sovereigns.  The  rogue  has  plenty  of  them.  He  has 
a stock-broker,  and  a power  of  guinea  lessons  stowed  away  in 
the  Consols.  There  are  a number  of  3'oung  ladies  of  genius  in 
the  aristocracy',  who  admire  him  hugely  ; he  begs  you  to  con- 
tradict the  report  about  him  and  Lady  Smigsmag ; eveiy'  now 
and  then  he  gets  a present  of  game  from  a marquis  ; the  citv 
ladies  die  to  have  lessons  of  him  ; he  prances  about  the  Park 
on  a high-bred  cock-tail,  with  lacquered  boots  and  enormous 
high  heels  ; and  he  has  a mother  and  sisters  somewhere  — 
washerwomen,  it  is  said,  in  Pimlico. 

How  different  is  his  fate  to  that  of  poor  Rubber}',  the 
school  drawing-master ! Highgate,  Homerton,  Putney,  Hack- 
ney, Hornsey,  Turnham  Green,  are  his  resorts  ; he  has  a select 
seminary  to  attend  at  evei’y  one  of  these  places  ; and  if,  from 
all  these  nurseries  of  youth,  he  obtains  a sufiicient  number  of 
half-crowns  to  pay  his  week’s  bills,  what  a happy  man  is  he  ! 


348 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


He  lives  most  likely  in  a third  floor  in  Howland  Street,  and 
has  commonly  five  children,  who  have  all  a marvellous  talent 
for  drawing — all  save  one,  perhaps,  that  is  an  idiot,  whicli  a 
poor,  sick  mother  is  ever  carefully  tending.  Sepio’s  great  aim 
and  battle  in  life  is  to  be  considered  one  of  the  aristocracy  ; 
honest  Rubbery  would  fain  be  thought  a gentleman,  too ; but, 
indeed,  he  does  not  know  wliether  he  is  so  or  not.  Why  be  a 
gentleman  ? — a gentleman  Artist  does  not  obtain  the  wages  of 
a tailor ; Rubbery’s  butcher  looks  down  upon  him  with  a royal 
scorn  ; and  his  wife,  poor  gentle  soul  (a  clergyman’s  daughter, 
who  married  him  in  the  firm  belief  that  her  John  would  be 
knighted,  and  make  an  immense  fortune),  — his  wife,  I say, 
has  many  fierce  looks  to  suffer  from  Mrs.  Butcher,  and  many 
meek  excuses  or  prayers  to  proffer,  when  she  cannot  pay  heV 
bill,  — or  when,  worst  of  all,  she  has  humbly  to  beg  for  a little 
scrap  of  meat  upon  credit,  against  John’s  coming  home.  He 
has  five-and-twenty  miles  to  walk  that  day,  and  must  have 
something  nourishing  when  he  comes  in  — he  is  killing  him- 
self, poor  fellow,  she  knows  he  is : and  Miss  Crick  has  prom- 
ised to  pay  him  his  quarter’s  charge  on  the  very  next  Satui’day. 
“Gentlefolks,  indeed,”  says  Mrs.  Butcher;  “pretty  gentle- 
folks these,  as  can’t  pa}”  for  half  a pound  of  steak  ! ” Let  us 
thank  heaven  that  the  Artist’s  wife  has  her  meat,  however,  — 
there  is  good  in  that  shrill,  fat,  mottle-faced  Mrs.  Brisket, 
after  all. 

Think  of  the  labors  of  that  poor  Rubbeiy.  He  was  up  at 
four  in  the  morning,  and  toiled  till  nine  upon  a huge  damp 
ic}^  lithographic  stone ; on  which  he  has  drawn  the  “Star  of 
the  Wave,”  or  the  “ Queen  of  the  Tourne}",”  or,  “ She  met  at 
Almack’s,’'  for  Lady  Flummeiy’s  last  new  song.  This  done, 
at  half-past  nine,  he  is  to  be  seen  striding  across  Kensington 
Gardens,  to  wait  upon  the  before-named  Miss  Crick,  at  Larnont 
House.  Transport  yourself  in  imagination  to  the  Misses  Kittle’s 
seminary,  Potzdam  Villa,  Upper  Homerton,  four  miles  from 
Shoreditch  : and  at  half-past  two.  Professor  Rubbeiy  is  to  be 
seen  swinging  along  towards  the  gate.  Somebody  is  on  the 
look-out  for  him ; indeed  it  is  his  eldest  daughter,  Marianne, 
who  has  been  pacing  the  shrubbeiy,  and  peering  over  the  green 
railings  this  half-hour  past.  She  is  with  the  Misses  Kittle 
on  the  “ mutual  S3^stem,”  a thousand  times  more  despised  than 
the  butchers’  and  the  grocers’  daughters,  who  are  educated  on 
the  same  terms,  and  whose  papas  are  warm  men  in  Aldgate. 
Wednesda}^  is  the  happiest  day  of  Marianne’s  week  • and  this 
the  happiest  hour  of  Wednesda3^  Behold ! Professor  Rub- 


THE  ARTISTS. 


349 


hery  wipes  his  hot  l)rows  and  kisses  the  poor  thing,  and  they 
go  in  together  ont  of  the  rain,  and  he  tells  her  that  the  twins 
are  well  ont  of  the  measles,  thank  God  ! and  that  Tom  has 
just  done  the  Antinoiis,  in  a wa}’  that  must  make  him  sure  of 
the  Academ}'  prize,  and  that  mother  is  better  of  lier  rheuma- 
tism now.  He  has  brought  her  a letter,  in  large  round-hand, 
from  Polly;  a famous  soldier,  drawn  b}’  little  Frank;  and 
when,  after  his  two  hours’  lesson,  Rubbery  is  off  again,  our 
dear  Marianne  cons  over  the  letter  and  picture  a hundred  times 
with  soft  tearful  smiles,  and  stows  them  awa\'  in  an  old  writing- 
desk,  amidst  a heap  more  of  precious  home  relics,  wretched 
trumpery  scraps  and  baubles,  that  you  and  I,  Madam,  would 
sneer  at ; but  that  in  the  poor  child’s  eyes  (and,  I think,  in  the 
ejxs  of  One  who  knows  how  to  value  widows’  mites  and  humble 
sinners’  offerings)  are  better  than  bank-notes  and  Pitt  diamonds. 
O kind  heaven,  that  has  given  these  treasures  to  the  poor! 
Many  and  many  an  hour  does  Marianne  lie  awake  with  full 
eyes,  and  yearn  for  that  wretched  old  lodging  in  Howland 
Street,  where  mother  and  brothers  lie  sleeping ; and,  gods ! 
what  a fete  it  is,  when  twice  or  thrice  in  the  year  she  comes 
home  I 

I forget  how  many  hundred  millions  of  miles,  for  how  many 
billions  of  centuries,  how  manj’  thousands  of  decillions  of  angels, 
peris,  liouris,  demons,  afreets,  and  the  like,  Mahomet  travelled, 
lived,  and  counted,  during  the  time  that  some  water  was  falling 
from  a bucket  to  the  ground  ; but  have  we  not  been  wandering 
most  egregiously  awaj-  from  Rubbeiy,  during  the  minute  in 
which  his  daughter  is  changing  his  shoes,  and  taking  off  his  reek- 
ing mackintosh  in  the  hall  of  Potzdam  Vilia?  She  thinks  him 
the  finest  artist  that  ever  cut  an  H.  B.  ; that’s  positive  : and  as 
a drawing-master,  his  merits  are  w'onderful ; for  at  the  Misses 
Kittle’s  annual  vacation  festival,  when  the  young  ladies’  draw- 
ings are  exhibited  to  their  mammas  and  relatives  (Rubbery 
attending  in  a clean  shirt,  wutli  his  wife’s  large  brooch  stuck 
in  it,  and  drinking  negus  along  with  the  very  best)  ; — at  the 
annual  festival,  I sa}^  it  will  be  found  that  the  sixtj^-four 
drawings  exhibited  — “ Tintern  Abbejg”  “ Kenilworth  Castle,” 
“Horse  — from  Carl  Vernet,”  “Head  — from  West,”  or  what 
not  (say  sixteen  of  each  sort)  — are  the  one  exaetK  as  good  as 
the  other ; so  that,  although  Miss  Slamcoe  gets  the  prize,  there 
is  really  no  reason  why  Miss  Timson,  who  is  only  four  years 
old,  should  not  have  it ; her  design  being  accurately’  stroke  for 
stroke,  tree  for  tree,  curl  for  curl,  the  same  as  Miss  Slamcoe’s, 


350 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


who  is  eighteen.  The  fact  is,  that  of  these  drawings,  Rubbery, 
in  the  course  of  the  year,  has  done  every  single  stroke,  although 
the  girls  and  their  parents  are  ready  to  take  their  affidavits  (or, 
as  I heard  once  a great  female  grammarian  sa}^,  their  affies  davit) 
that  the  drawing-master  has  never  been  near  the  sketches. 
This  is  the  way  with  them  ; but  mark  ! — when  young  ladies 
come  home,  are  settled  in  life,  and  mammas  of  families, — can 
they  design  so  much  as  a horse,  or  a dog,  or  a “ moo-cow”  for 
little  Jack  who  bawls  out  for  them?  Not  they!  Rubbery’s 
pupils  have  no  more  notion  of  drawing,  an}’'  more  than  Sepio’s 
of  painting,  when  that  eminent  artist  is  away. 

Between  these  two  gentlemen,  lie  a whole  class  of  teachers 
of  drawing,  who  resemble  them  more  or  less.  1 am  ashamed 
to  say  that  Rubl)ery  takes  his  pipe  in  the  parlor  of  an  hotel,  of 
which  tlie  largest  room  is  devoted  to  the  convenience  of  poor 
people,  amateurs  of  British  gin  : whilst  Sepio  trips  down  to  the 
Club,  and  has  a pint  of  the  smallest  claret : but  of  course  the 
tastes  of  men  vary ; and  you  find  them  simple  or  presuming, 
careless  or  prudent,  natural  and  vulgar,  or  false  and  atrociously 
genteel,  in  all  ranks  and  stations  of  life. 

As  for  the  other  persons  mentioned  at  the  beginning  of  this 
discourse,  viz.  the  cheap  portrait-painter,  the  portrait-cutter  in 
stickiug-i)laster,  and  Miss  Croke,  the  teacher  of  mezzotint  and 
Poonah-painting,  — nothing  need  be  said  of  them  in  this  place, 
as  we  have  to  speak  of  matters  more  important.  Only  about 
Miss  Croke,  or  about  other  professors  of  cheap  art,  let  the 
reader  most  sedulously  avoid  them.  Mezzotinto  is  a take-in, 
Poonah-painting  a rank,  villauous  deception.  So  is  “Grecian 
art  without  brush  or  pencils.”  Tliese  are  only  small  mechanical 
contrivances,  over  which  young  ladies  are  made  to  lose  time. 
And  now%  having  disposed  of  these  small  skirmishers  who  hover 
round  the  great  body  of  Artists,  wm  are  arrived  in  presence  of 
the  main  force,  that  we  must  begin  to  attack  in  form.  In  the 
“ partition  of  the  earth,”  as  it  has  been  described  by  Schiller, 
the  reader  will  remember  that  the  poet,  finding  himself  at  the 
end  of  a general  scramble  without  a single  morsel  of  plunder, 
applied  passionately  to  Jove,  who  pitied  the  poor  fellow’s  con- 
dition, and  complimented  him  with  a seat  in  the  Empyrean. 
“The  strong  and  the  cunning,”  says  Jupiter,  “have  seized 
upon  the  inheritance  of  the  world,  whilst  thou  wert  star-gazing 
and  rhyming : not  one  single  acre  remains  wherewith  I can 
endow  thee ; but,  in  revenge,  if  thou  art  disposed  to  visit  me 
in  my  own  heaven,  come  when  thou  wilt,  it  is  always  open  to 
thee.” 


THE  ARTISTS. 


351 


The  cunning  and  strong  have  scrainlded  and  struggled  more 
on  our  own  little  native  spot  of  earth  than  in  any  other  place 
on  the  world’s  surface ; and  the  English  poet  (whether  lie 
handles  a pen  or  a pencil  (has  little  other  refuge  than  that 
windy,  unsubstantial  one  which  Jove  has  vouchsafed  to  him. 
Such  aiiy  board  and  lodging  is,  however,  distasteful  to  many; 
who  prefer,  therefore,  to  give  u[)  their  [loctical  calling,  and, 
in  a vulgar  beef-eating  world,  to  feed  upon  and  light  for  vulgar 
beef. 

For  such  persons  (among  the  class  of  painters),  it  ma}'  be 
asserted  that  portrait-painting  was  invented.  It  is  the  Artist’s 
compromise  with  heaven  ; “ the  light  of  common  da}^”  in  which, 
after  a certain  (piantity  of  “ travel  from  the  East,”  the  genius 
fades  at  last.  Abbe  Harthelemy  (who  scut  Lc  Jeiine  Anachar- 
sis  travelling  through  Greece  in  the  time  of  Plato,  — travelling 
through  ancient  Greece  in  lace  rullles,  red  heels,  and  a pigtail), 
— Abbe  Barthelemy,  I sav,  declares  that  someliody  was  once 
standing  against  a wall  in  the  sun,  and  that  somebod}’  else 
traced  the  outline  of  somebody’s  shadow  ; and  so  painting  was 
“ invented.”  Angelica  Kaurfmann  has  made  a neat  picture  of 
this  neat  subject ; and  very  well  worthy  she  was  of  handling  it. 
Pier  painting  mvjlit  grow  out  of  a wall  and  a piece  of  charcoal ; 
and  honest  Barthelem}'  might  be  satisfied  that  he  had  here  traced 
the  true  origin  of  the  art.  What  a base  pedigree  have  these 
abominable  Greek,  French,  and  High-Dutch  heathens  invented 
for  that  which  is  divine  ! — a wall,  ye  gods,  to  be  represented 
as  the  father  of  that  which  came  down  radiant  from  you  ! The 
man  who  invented  such  a blas[)hcmy,  ought  to  be  impaled  upon 
broken  bottles,  or  shot  off  pitilessly  by  spring-guns,  nailed  to 
the  bricks  like  a dead  owl  or  a weasel,  or  Lied  up  — a kind  of 
vulgar  Prometheus  — and  baited  forever  by  the  house-dog. 

But  let  not  our  indignation  cany  us  too  far.  Lack  of  genius 
in  some,  of  bread  in  others,  of  patronage  in  a shop-keeping 
world,  that  thinks  only  of  the  useful,  and  is  little  inclined  to 
stud}^  the  sublime,  has  turned  thousands  of  persons  calling 
themselves,  and  wishing  to  be.  Artists,  into  so  many  common 
face-painters,  who  must  look  out  for  the  “ kalon  ” in  the  fat 
features  of  a red-gilled  Alderman,  or,  at  best,  in  a prett}%  sim- 
pering, white-necked  beauty  from  “.Almack’s.”  The  dangerous 
charms  of  these  latter,  especially,  have  seduced  awa}'  many 
painters ; and  we  often  think  that  this  very  physical  superiority 
which  English  ladies  possess,  this  tempting  brilliancy  of  health 
and  complexion,  which  belongs  to  them  more  than  to  any 
others,  has  operated  upon  our  Artists  as  a serious  disadvan- 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


SH2 

tage,  and  kept  them  from  l)etter  things.  The  French  call  such 
beauty  “ La  Beaute  du  Diahle  and  a devilish  power  it  has 
truly ; before  our  Armidas  and  Helens  how  man}^  Rinaldos  and 
Parises  have  fallen,  who  are  content  to  forget  their  glorious 
calling,  and  slumber  awny  their  energies  in  the  laps  of  these 
soft  tempters.  O ye  British  enchantresses ! 1 never  see  a 

gilded  annual-book,  without  likening  it  to  a small  island  near 
Cape  Pelorus,  in  Sicily,  whither,  by  twanging  of  harps,  singing 
of  ravishing  melodies,  glancing  of  voluptuous  C3^es,  and  the 
most  beautiful  fashionable  undress  in  the  world,  the  naughty 
sirens  lured  the  passing  seaman.  Steer  clear  of  them,  3m  Ar- 
tists ! pull,  pull  for  your  lives,  3'e  crews  of  Suffolk  Street  and 
the  Water-Color  gallery ! stop  your  ears,  buiy  your  eyes,  tie 
3'ourselves  to  the  mast,  and  away  with  3*011  from  the  gaud3% 
smiling  “ Books  of  Beauty.”  Laud,  and  you  are  ruined  ! Look 
w’ell  among  the  flowers  on  3*onder  beach  — it  is  whitened  with 
the  bones  of  painters. 

For  1113*  part,  I never  have  a model  under  sevent3*,  and  her 
with  several  shawls  and  a cloak  on.  Bv  these  means  the  imagi- 
nation gets  fair  play,  and  the  morals  remain  unendangered. 

Personalities  are  odious  ; but  let  the  British  public  look  at 
the  pictures  of  the  celebrated  IMr.  Shalloon  — the  moral  British 
public  — and  say  whether  our  grandchildren  (or  the  grandchil- 
dren of  the  exalted  personages  whom  Mr.  Shalloon  paints)  will 
not  have  a queer  idea  of  the  manners  of  their  grandmammas, 
as  tliC3*  are  represented  in  the  most  beautiful,  dexterous,  capti- 
vating water-color  drawings  that  ever  w'cre?  Heavenl3*  pow- 
ers, how  thc3’  simper  and  ogle  ! with  what  gimcracks  of  lace, 
ribbons,  ferronieres,  smelling-bottles,  and  whatnot,  is  eveiyone 
of  them  overloaded  ! What  shoulders,  what  ringlets,  what  funny 
little  pug-dogs  do  they  most  of  them  exhibit  to  us  ! The  days 
of  Lancret  and  Watteau  are  lived  over  again,  and  the  court 
ladies  of  the  time  of  Queen  Victoria  look  as  moral  as  the  im- 
maculate countesses  of  the  da3*s  of  Louis  Quinze.  The  last 
President  of  the  Ro3*al  Acadenn*  * is  answerable  for  maii3*  sins, 
and  mau3’  imitators  ; especially  for  that  ga3*,  simpering,  mere- 
tricious look  which  he  managed  to  give  to  ever3*  lad3*  who  sat 
to  him  for  her  })ortrait ; and  I do  not  know  a more  curious  con- 
trast than  that  which  ma3*  be  perceived  b3*  an3*  one  who  will 
examine  a collection  of  his  portraits  ly  the  side  of  some  b3*  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds.  Thc3*  seem  to  have  painted  different  races 
of  people ; and  when  one  hears  veiy  old  gentlemen  talking  of 
the  superior  beauty  that  existed  in  their  earl3^  da3*s  (as  very 
* Sir  Thomas  Lawrence. 


THE  ARTISTS. 


353 


old  gentlemen,  from  Nestor  downwards,  have  and  will),  one  is 
inclined  to  l)elieve  that  there  is  some  truth  in  what  tliey  sa}' ; 
at  least,  that  the  men  and  women  under  George  the  Third  were 
far  superior  to  tlieir  deseendants  in  the  time  of  George  tlie 
Fourth.  Whither  lias  it  (led  — that  calm  matronly  grace,  or 
beautiful  viig'in  innoeenee,  which  belonged  to  the  hiipiiy  women 
who  sat  to  Sir  Joshua?  Sir  J'liomas’s  ladies  are  ogling  out  of 
their  gilt  frames,  and  asking  us  for  admiration  ; Sir  Joshua’s 
sit  (piiet,  in  maiden  meditation  laney  IVee,  not  anxious  foi'  ap- 
plause, but  sui’e  to  eommand  it ; a thousand  times  more  lovely 
in  their  sedate  serenity  than  Sir  Thomas’s  ladies  in  their  smiles, 
and  their  satin  liall-dresses. 

Hut  this  is  not  the  general  notion,  and  the  ladies  [)i-efer  the 
manner  of  the  modern  Artist.  Of  course,  such  being  tlu'  ease, 
the  painters  must  follow  the  fashion.  One  could  j)oint  out 
half  a dozen  Artists  who,  at  Sir  Thomas’s  death,  have  seized 
upon  a shred  of  his  somewhat  tawdry  mantle.  There  is  Car- 
mine, for  instance,  a man  of  no  small  repute,  who  will  stand  as 
the  representative  of  his  class. 

C'arminc  has  had  the  usual  education  of  a painter  in  this 
j'ountry ; he  can  read  and  write  — that  is,  has  spent  years 
drawing  the  figure  — and  has  made  ]iis  foreign  tour.  It  may 
be  that  he  had  original  talent  once,  but  he  has  learned  to  forget 
this,  as  the  great  bar  to  his  success  ; and  must  imitate,  in  order 
to  live.  lie  is  among  Artists  what  a dentist  is  among  sur- 
geons — a man  who  is  emploved  to  decorate  the  human  head, 
and  who  is  paid  enormously  for  so  doing.  You  know  one  of 
Carmine’s  beauties  at  any  exhibition,  and  see  the  process  b}' 
which  they  are  manufactured.  lie  lengthens  the  noses,  widens 
the  foreheads,  opens  the  eyes,  and  gives  them  the  proper  lan- 
guishing leer ; diminishes  the  mouth,  and  infallibly  tips  the 
ends  of  it  with  a pretty  smile  of  his  favorite  color.  He  is  a 
personable,  white-handed,  bald-headed,  middle-aged  man  now', 
with  that  grave  blandness  of  look  wdiieh  one  sees  in  so  many 
prosperous  empty-headed  peo})le.  He  has  a collection  of  little 
stories  and  court  gossip  about  Lady  This,  and  “ my  particular 
friend,  Lord  So-and-so,”  which  he  lets  off  in  succession  toevei'y 
sitter:  indeed,  a most  bland,  irreproachable,  gentlemanlike 
man.  He  gives  most  patronizing  advice  to  young  Artists,  and 
makes  a point  of  praising  all  — not  certainly  too  much,  but  in 
a gentlemanlike,  indifferent,  simpering  wa}'.  This  should  be 
the  maxim  with  prosperous  persons,  who  have  had  to  make 
their  wa}g  and  wash  to  keep  what  they  have  made.  They 
praise  everybody,  and  arc  called  good-natured,  benevolent  men. 


354 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


Surcl}^  no  beneA^olencc  is  so  eas}' ; it  siinpl3^  consists  in  lying, 
and  smiling,  and  wishing  everybody  well.  You  will  get  to  do 
so  quite  naturally  at  last,  and  at  no  expense  of  truth.  At  first, 
when  a man  has  feelings  of  his  own  — feelings  of  love  or  of 
anger  — this  perpetual  grin  and  good-humor  is  hard  to  main- 
tain. I used  to  imagine,  wlien  I first  knew  Carmine,  that  there 
were  some  particular  springs  in  his  wig  (that  gloss}',  oil}q  curly 
cro[)  of  chestnut  liair)  that  [)ulled  up  his  features  into  a smile, 
and  kept  the  muscles  so  fixed  for  the  day.  I don’t  think  so 
now,  and  should  say  he  grinned,  even  when  he  was  asleep  and 
his  teeth  were  out;  the  smile  does  not  lie  in  the  manufacture 
of  the  wig,  but  in  the  construction  of  the  brain.  Claude  Car- 
mine has  the  organ  of  don' t-care-a-damn-ativeness  wonderfully 
developed  ; not  that  reckless  don’t-care-a-damn-ativeness  which 
leads  a man  to  disregard  all  the  world,  and  himself  into  the 
bargain.  Claude  stops  before  becomes  to  himself;  but  beyond 
that  individual  member  of  the  Royal  Academ}',  has  not  a single 
sympathy  for  a single  human  creature.  The  account  of  liis 
friends’  deaths,  woes,  misfortunes,  or  good  luck,  he  receives 
with  e(]ual  good-nature  ; he  gives  three  splendid  dinners  per 
annum,  Gunter,  Dukes,  Fortnum,  and  Mason,  everything;  he 
dines  out  the  other  three  hundred  and  sixty-two  days  in  the 
year,  and  was  never  known  to  give  away  a shilling,  or  to  ad- 
vance, for  one  half-hour,  the  forty  pounds  per  quarter  wages 
that  he  gives  to  IMr.  Scumble,  who  works  the  backgrounds, 
limbs,  and  draperies  of  his  [)ortraits. 

lie  is  not  a good  })ainter:  how  should  he  be;  whose  paint- 
ing as  it  were  never  goes  beyond  a whisper,  and  who  would 
make  a general  simi)ering  as  he  looked  at  an  advancing  can- 
non-ball?— but  he  is  not  a bad  [)ainter,  l)eing  a keen  i-espect- 
able  man  of  the  world,  who  has  a cool  head,  and  knows  what 
is  what.  In  France,  where  tigerism  used  to  be  the  fashion 
among  the  painters,  I make  no  doubt  Carmine  would  have  let 
his  bc'ard  and  wig  gi’ow,  and  looked  the  fiercest  of  the  fierce  ; 
but  with  us  a man  must  l)e  genteel  ; the  perfection  of  style  (in 
writing  and  in  drawing-rooms)  being  ‘wA  ne  pas  en  avoii\" 
Carmine  oi’  course  is  agreeably  vai>id.  Mis  conversation  has 
accordingly  the  llavor  and  briskness  of  a clear,  brilliant,  stale 
bottle  of  soda-water,  — once  in  five  minutes  or  so,  you  see 
rising  up  to  the  surface  a little  bubble  — a little  tiny  shining 
})oint  of  wit,  — it  rises  and  explodes  feebly,  and  then  dies. 
With  regard  to  wit,  pcoi)le  of  fashion  (as  we  are  given  to  un- 
derstand) are  satisfied  with  a mere  soup^on  of  it.  Anything 
more  were  indecorous  ; a genteel  stomach  could  not  bear  it ; 


THE  ARTISTS. 


355 


Carmine  knows  the  exact  proportions  of  the  close,  and  would 
not  venture  to  administer  to  liis  sitters  anything  beyond  the 
requisite  (piantity. 

There  is  a great  deal  more  said  here  about  Carmine  — the 
man,  than  Carmine  — the  Artist ; but  what  can  be  written  about 
the  latter?  New  ladies  in  white  satin,  new  Generals  in  red,  new 
Peers  in  scarlet  and  ermine,  and  stout  JMembers  of  Parliament 
l>ointing  to  inkstands  and  sheets  of  letter-i)aper,  with  a Turke^'- 
earpet  beneath  them,  a red  curtain  al)Ove  them,  a Doric  i)illar 
su[)[)orting  them,  and  a tremc'iulous  storm  oflhunder  and  light- 
ning lowering  and  Hashing  in  the  background,  spring  up  every 
year,  and  take  their  due  [)ositions  upon  the  line  ” in  the 
Academy,  and  send  their  eonq)liments  of  hundreds  to  swell 
Carmine’s  heap  of  Consols.  If  lie  iiaints  Lady  Flummeiy^  for 
the  tenth  time,  in  the  character  of  the  tenth  Muse,  what  need 
have  we  to  say  an3'thing  about  it?  The  man  is  a good  work- 
inaii,  and  will  manulacture  a decent  article  at  the  best  price  ; 
but  we  should  no  more  think  of  noticing  each,  than  of  writing 
fresh  critiques  iqion  every  new  coat  that  Nngee  or  Stultz  tiirnecl 
out.  The  papers  say,  in  reference  to  his  iiicture  “ No  591. 
‘ Full-length  portrait  of  her  Grace  the  Duchess  of  Doldrum. 
Carmine,  U.  A.’  Mr.  Carmine  never  fails  ; this  W'Ork,  like  all 
others,  hy  the  same  artist,  is  excellent:  ” — or,  “No.  591,  &c- 
The  lovely'  Duchess  of  Doldrum  has  received  from  Mr.  Carmine’s 
pencil  ainj)le  justice  ; the  chiar  oscuro  of  the  picture  is  perfect ; 
the  likeness  admirable  ; the  keeping  and  coloring  have  the  true 
Titianesque  gusto ; if  we  might  hint  a fault,  it  has  the  left  ear 
of  the  lap-dog  a little’  out  of  di^nving.” 

Then,  perhaps,  comes  a criticism  \/hich  sa^’s  : — “ The 
Duchess  of  Doldrum’s  picture  b\^  Mr.  Carmine  is  neither  better 
nor  worse  than  five  hundred  other  performances  of  the  same 
artist.  It  would  be  veiy  unjust  to  say  that  these  portraits  are 
bad,  for  they  have  reall}^  a considerable  cleverness  ; but  to  say 
that  the}"  were  good,  would  be  (piite  as  false  ; nothing  in  our 
eyes  was  ever  further  from  being  so.  Every  ten  years  Mr. 
Carmine  exhibits  wdiat  is  called  an  original  [)icture  of  thi-ee 
inches  square,  but  beyond  this,  nothing  original  is  to  be  found  in 
him  : as  a lad,  he  copied  Reynolds,  then  Opie,  then  Lawrence  ; 
then  having  made  a sort  of  style  of  his  own,  he  has  copied  him- 
self ever  since,”  &c. 

And  then  the  critic  goes  on  to  consider  the  various  parts  of 
Carmine’s  pictures.  In  speaking  of  critics,  their  peculiar  rela- 
tionship with  painters  ought  not  to  be  forgotten ; and  as  in  a 
former  paper  we  have  seen  how  a fashionable  authoress  has  hC^ 


356 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


critical  toadies,  in  like  manner  has  the  painter  his  enemies  and 
friends  in  the  press  ; with  this  difference,  probably,  that  the 
writer  can  bear  a fair  quantity  of  abuse  without  wincing,  while 
the  artist  not  uncommonly  grows  mad  at  such  strictures,  con- 
siders them  as  personal  matters,  inspired  by  a private  feeling 
of  hostility,  and  hates  the  critic  for  life  who  has  ventured  to 
question  his  judgment  in  any  way.  We  have  said  before,  poor 
Academicians,  for  how  many  conspiracies  are  }'Ou  made  to 
answer!  We  ma}-  add  now,  poor  critics,  what  black  personal 
animosities  are  discovered  for  you,  when  you  happen  (right  or 
wrong,  but  according  to  your  best  ideas)  to  speak  the  truth  I 
iisiy  that  Snooks’s  picture  is  badly  colored.  — “ O heavens  ! ” 
shrieks  Snooks,  “ what  can  I have  done  to  offend  this  fellow?” 
Hint  that  such  a figure  is  badly  drawn  — and  Snooks  instantly 
declares  3’ou  to  be  his  personal  enemj',  actuated  only  bj^  envy 
and  vile  pique.  M3'  friend  Pebbler,  himself  a famous  Artist, 
is  of  opinion  that  the  critic  should  never  abuse  the  painter’s 
performances,  because,  sa3^s  he,  the  painter  knows  much  better 
than  an3"  one  else  what  his  owm  faults  are,  and  because  you 
never  do  him  any  good.  Are  men  of  the  brush  so  obstinate?  — 
very  likely : but  the  public  — the  public  ? are  we  not  to  do  our 
duty  by  it  too  ; and,  aided  by'  our  superior  knowledge  and 
genius  for  the  fine  arts,  point  out  to  it  the  way^  it  should  go? 
Yes,  surely ; and  as  by  the  efforts  of  dull  or  interested  critics 
many  bad  painters  have  been  palmed  off  upon  the  nation  as 
geniuses  of  the  first  degree  ; in  like  manner,  the  sagacious  and 
disinterested  (like  some  we  could  name)  have  endeavored  to 
provide  this  British  nation  with  pure  principles  of  taste,  — or 
at  least,  to  prevent  them  from  adopting  such  as  are  impure. 

Carmine,  to  be  sure,  comes  in  for  veiy  little  abuse  ; and, 
indeed,  he  deserves  but  little.  He  is  a fashionable  painter, 
and  preserves  the  golden  mediocrity  which  is  necessary  for  the 
fashion.  Let  us  bid  him  good-by.  He  lives  in  a house  all  to 
himself,  most  likely', — has  a footman,  sometimes  a carriage; 
is  apt  to  belong  to  the  “Athenaeum;”  and  dies  universally 
respected  ; that  is,  not  one  single  soul  cares  for  him  dead,  as 
he,  living,  did  not  care  for  one  single  soul. 

Then,  perhaps,  we  should  mention  M‘Gilp,  or  Blather,  ris- 
ing 3'oung  men,  who  will  fill  Carmine’s  place  one  of  these  days, 

and  occupy  his  house  in , when  the  fulness  of  time  shall 

come,  and  (he  borne  to  a narrow  grave  in  the  Harrow  Road 
by  the  whole  mourning  Royml  Academy^)  they  shall  leave  their 
present  first  floor  in  Newman  Street,  and  step  into  his  very 
house  and  shoes. 


THE  ARTISTS. 


357 


There  is  little  difference  between  the  juniors  and  the  sen- 
iors ; the}^  grin  when  they  are  talking  of  him  together,  and  ex- 
press a perfect  confidence  that  the}'  can  paint  a head  against 
Carmine  any  day  — as  very  likely  they  can.  But  until  his  de- 
mise, they  are  occupied  with  painting  people  about  the  Regent’s 
l^ark  and  Russell  Square  ; are  very  glad  to  have  the  chance  of 
a popular  clergyman,  or  a college  tutor,  or  a ma}'or  of  Stoke 
Roges  after  the  Reform  Bill.  Such  characters  are  commonl}' 
mezzotinted  afterwards  ; and  the  portrait  of  our  esteemed  tow  ns- 
man  So-and-so,  by  that  talented  artist  Mr.  M‘Gilp,  of  London, 
is  favorably  noticed  b}'  the  provincial  press,  and  is  to  be  found 
over  the  sideboards  of  man}'  country  gentlemen.  If  they  come 
up  to  town,  to  whom  do  they  go?  To  M‘Gilp,  to  be  sure; 
and  thus,  slowly,  his  practice  and  his  prices  increase. 

The  Academy  student  is  a personage  that  should  not  be 
omitted  here  ; he  resembles  very  much,  outw^ardly,  the  medical 
student,  and  has  many  of  the  latter’s  habits  and  pleasures, 
lie  very  often  wears  a broad-brimmed  hat  and  a fine  diity 
crimson  velvet  waistcoat,  his  hair  commonly  grows  long,  and 
he  has  braiding  to  his  pantaloons.  He  works  leisurely  at  the 
Academy,  he  loves  theatres,  billiards,  and  novels,  and  has  his 
house-of-call  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of  Saint  Martiji’s 
Lane,  where  he  and  his  brethren  meet  and  sneer  at  Royal 
Academicians.  If  you  ask  him  what  line  of  art  he  puisnes, 
he  answers  with  a smile  exceedingly  supercilious,  “Sir,  I am 
an  historical  painter ; ” meaning  that  he  will  only  condescend 
to  take  subjects  from  Hume,  or  Robertson,  or  from  the  classics 
■ — which  he  knows  nothing  about.  This  stage  of  an  historical 
painter  is  only  preparatory,  lasting  perhaps  from  eighteen  to 
11  ve-and- twenty,  when  the  gentleman’s  madness  begins  to  dis- 
appear, and  he  comes  to  look  at  life  sternly  in  the  face,  and 
to  learn  that  man  shall  not  live  by  historical  painting  alone. 
Then  our  friend  falls  to  portrait-painting,  or  annual-painting, 
or  makes  some  other  such  sad  compromise  with  necessity. 

He  has  probably  a small  patrimony,  which  defrays  the  charge 
of  his  studies  and  cheap  pleasures  during  his  period  of  ap- 
prenticeship. He  ■’makes  the  oblige  tour  to  France  and  Italy, 
and  returns  from  those  countries  with  a multitude  of  spoiled 
canvases,  and  a large  pair  of  moustaches,  wdth  which  he  es- 
tablishes himself  in  one  of  the  dingy  streets  of  Soho  before 
mentioned.  There  is  poor  Pipson,  a man  of  indomitable  pa- 
tience, and  undying  enthusiasm  for  his  profession.  He  could 
paper  Exeter  Hall  with  his  studies  from  the  life,  and  with  por- 
traits in  chalk  and  oil  of  French  sapeurs  and  Italians  brigands, 


858 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


that  kindl}'  descend  from  their  mountain-caverns,  and  quit  their 
murderous  occupations,  in  order  to  sit  to  young  gentlemen  at 
Rome,  at  the  rate  of  tenpence  an  hour.  Pipson  returns  from 
abroad,  establishes  himself,  has  his  cards  printed,  and  waits 
and  waits  for  commissions  for  great  historical  pictures.  Mean- 
while, night  after  night,  he  is  to  be  found  at  his  old  place  in 
the  Academ}^  copying  the  old  life-guardsman  — working,  work- 
ing awa}^  — and  never  advancing  one  jot.  At  eighteen,  Pipson 
copied  statues  and  life-guardsmen  to  admiration  ; at  five-and- 
thirty  he  can  make  admirable  drawings  of  life-guardsmen  and 
statues.  Beyond  this  he  never  goes  ; year  after  }xar  his  his- 
torical picture  is  returned  to  him  b}^  the  envious  Academicians, 
and  he  grows  old,  and  his  little  patrimony  is  long  since  spent; 
and  he  earns  nothing  himself.  How  does  he  support  hope  and 
life  ? — that  is  the  wonder.  No  one  knows  until  he  tries  (which 
God  forbid  he  should  !)  upon  what  a small  matter  hope  and 
life  can  be  supported.  Our  poor  fellow  lives  on  from  3’ear  to 
3’ear  in  a miraculous  wa}-  ; tolerabl}'’  cheerful  in  the  midst  of  his 
semi-starvation,  and  wonderfully”  confident  about  next  y”ear,  in 
spite  of  the  failures  of  the  last  twenty'-five.  Let  us  thank  God 
for  imparting  to  us,  poor  weak  mortals,  the  inestimable  blessing 
oi  vanity.  IIow  many  half-witted  votaries  of  the  arts  — poets, 
painters,  actors,  musicians  — live  upon  this  food,  and  scarcely” 
any  other ! If  the  delusion  were  to  drop  from  Pipson’s  eyes, 
and  he  should  see  himself  as  he  is,  — if  some  malevolent  genius 
were  to  mingle  with  his  feeble  brains  one  fatal  particle  of 
common  sense,  — he  would  just  walk  off  Waterloo  Bridge,  and 
abjure  poverty”,  incapacity”,  cold  lodgings,  unpaid  baker’s  bills, 
ragged  elbows,  and  deferred  hopes,  at  once  and  for  ever. 

We  do  not  mean  to  depreciate  the  profession  of  historical 
painting,  but  simply  to  warn  y”oiith  against  it  as  dangerous  and 
unprofitable.  It  is  as  if  a y”onng  fellow  should  say”,  ‘‘  I will  be 
a Raffaelle  or  a Titian, — a Milton  or  a Shakspeare,”  and  if 
he  will  count  up  how  many  people  have  lived  since  the  world 
liegan,  and  how  many'  there  have  been  of  the  Raffaelle  or 
Shakspeare  sort,  he  can  calculate  to  a nicety^  what  are  the 
chances  in  his  favor.  Even  successful  historical  painters,  what 
are  they”?  — in  a worldly”  point  of  view,  they'  mostly  inhabit  the 
second  floor,  or  have  great  desolate  studios  in  back  premises, 
whither  life-guardsmen,  old-clothesmen,  blackamoors,  and  other 
“ properties”  are  conducted,  to  figure  at  full  length  as  Roman 
conquerors,  Jew'ish  high-priests,  or  Othellos  on  canvas.  Then 
there  are  gay,  smart,  water-color  painters,  — a flourishing  and 
pleasant  trade.  Then  there  are  shabby*,  fierce-looking  geniuses, 


THE  ARTISTS. 


359 


in  ringlets,  and  all  but  rags,  who  paint,  and  whose  pietures  are 
never  sold,  and  who  vow  the}"  are  the  objects  of  some  general 
and  scoundrelly  conspirac}'.  There  are  landscape-painters, 
who  travel  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth  and  brave  heat 
and  cold,  to  bring  to  the  greedy  British  public  views  of  Cairo, 
Calcutta,  8t.  Petersburg,  Timbuctoo.  You  see  English  artists 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Pyramids,  making  sketches  of  the 
Copts,  perched  on  the  backs  of  dromedaries,  accompanying  a 
caravan  across  the  desert,  or  getting  materials  for  an  annual 
in  Iceland  or  Siberia.  AV^hat  genius  and  what  energy  do  not 
they  all  exhibit  — these  men,  whose  profession,  in  this  wise 
country  of  ours,  is  scarcely  considered  as  liberal ! 

If  we  read  the  works  of  the  Reverend  Dr.  Lempriere,  Mon- 
sieur AVinckelmann,  Professor  Plato,  and  others  who  have 
written  concerning  the  musty  old  Grecians,  we  shall  find  that 
tlie  Artists  of  those  barbarous  times  meddled  with  all  sorts  of 
trades  besides  their  own,  and  dabbled  in  fighting,  philosophy, 
metapli3^sics,  both  Scotch  and  German,  politics,  music,  and  the 
deuce  knows  what.  A rambling  sculptor,  who  used  to  go  about 
giving  lectjres  in  those  days,  Socrates  by  name,  declared  that 
the  wisest  of  men  in  his  time  were  artists.  This  Plato,  before 
mentioned,  went  through  a regular  course  of  drawing,  figure 
and  landscape,  black-lead,  chalk,  with  or  without  stump,  sepia, 
water-color,  and  oils.  Was  there  ever  such  absurdity  known? 
Among  these  benighted  heathens,  painters  were  the  most  ac- 
complished gentlemen,  — and  the  most  accomplished  gentlemen 
were  painters  ; the  former  would  make  you  a speech,  or  read 
3"OLi  a dissertation  on  Kant,  or  lead  3"ou  a regiment,  — with  the 
veiy  best  statesman,  philosopher,  or  soldier  in  Athens.  And 
they  had  the  folly  to  sa}",  that  b}"  thus  bus3"ing  and  accom- 
plishing themselves  in  all  manl}"  studies,  the}"  were  advancing 
eminentl}"  in  their  own  peculiar  one.  AYhat  was  the  conse- 
quence ? Wh}",  that  fellow  Socrates  not  only  made  a miserable 

fifth-rate  sculptor,  but  was  actually  hanged  for  treason. 

And  serve  him  right.  Do  our  }"oung  artists  stud}"  anything 
beyond  the  proper  way  of  cutting  a pencil,  or  drawing  a model? 
Do  you  hear  of  them  hard  at  work  over  books,  and  bothering 
their  brains  with  musty  learning?  Not  they,  forsooth:  we 
understand  the  doctrine  of  division  of  labor,  and  each  man 
sticks  to  his  trade.  Artists  do  not  meddle  with  the  pursuits  of 
the  rest  of  the  world ; and,  in  revenge,  the  rest  of  the  world 
does  not  meddle  with  Artists.  Fancy  an  Artist  being  a senior 
wrangler  or  a politician  ; and  on  the  other  hand,  fancy  a real 
gentleman  turned  painter ! No,  no ; ranks  are  defined.  A 


360 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 


real  gentleman  may  get  mone}"  by  the  law,  or  by  wearing  a red 
coat  and  fighting,  or  a black  one  and  preaching ; but  that  he 
should  sell  himself  to  Art  — forbid  it,  heaven  ! And  do  not  let 
your  ladj'ship  on  reading  this  ciy,  “ Stuff!  — stupid  en\y,  rank 
republicanism,  — an  artist  is  a gentleman.”  Madam,  would 
you  like  to  see  3^0111-  son,  the  Honorable  Fitziw  Plantagenet,  a 
painter?  You  would  die  sooner;  the  escutcheon  of  the  Smig- 
smags  would  be  blotted  for  ever,  if  Plantagenet  ever  ventured 
to  make  a mercantile  use  of  a bladder  of  paint. 

Time  was  — some  hundred  years  back  — when  writers  lived 
in  Grub  Street,  and  poor  ragged  Johnson  shrunk  behind  a screen 
in  Cave’s  parlor  — that  the  author’s  trade  was  considered  a 
veiy  mean  one  ; which  a gentleman  of  famil}'  could  not  take 
up  but  as  an  amateur.  This  absurdit}"  is  prett}'  nearl}^  worn 
out  now,  and  1 do  humbly  hope  and  pra}'  for  the  day  when  the 
other  shall  likewise  disappear.  If  there  be  any  nobleman  with 
a talent  that  wa}^,  wly  — why  don’t  we  see  him  among  the 
R.A.’s? 

501.  The  Schoolmaster.  Sketch  ) Brum,  Henry.Lord, /?.  aS.A. 

taken  abroad ) of  the  National  Institute  of  France 

602.  View  Arli  residence  | Honorable  T.  B, 

603.  Murder  of  the  Babes  in  the  j Rustle,  Lord  J. 

Tower \ Pill,  Right  Honorable  Sir  Robert. 

504.  A little  Agitation  ....  O’Carrol,  Daniel,  M.R.I.A. 


Fancy,  I say,  such  names  as  these  figuring  in  the  catalogue 
of  the  Academy  : and  why  should  they  not?  The  real  glorious 
days  of  the  art  (which  wants  equality  and  not  patronage)  will 
revive  then.  Patronage — a plague  on  the  word!  — it  im- 
l>lies  inferiority ; and  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  sensible,  why  is 
a respectable  countiy  gentleman,  or  a cit}’  attorncN’s  lady,  or 
any  person  of  aiy  rank,  how'ever  exalted,  to  “■  ” an 

Artist ! 

There  are  some  who  sigh  for  the  past  times,  when  magnifi- 
cent, swaggering  Peter  Paul  Rubens  (who  himself  patronized  a 
queen)  rode  abroad  with  a score  of  gentlemen  in  his  train,  and 
a purse-bearer  to  scatter  ducats  ; and  who  love  to  think  how  he 
was  made  an  English  knight  and  a Spanish  grandee,  and  went 
of  embassies  as  if  he  had  been  a born  marquis.  Sweet  it  is  to 
remember,  too,  that  Sir  Anton v Vandvek,  K.B.,  actualH  mar- 
ried out  of  the  peerage  : and  that  when  Titian  dropped  his 
mahlstick,  the  Emperor  C’harles  V.  picked  it  up  (O  gods  ! what 
heroic  self-devotion)  — picked  it  up,  saying,  ‘‘  I can  make  fifty 


THE  ARTISTS. 


361 


dukes,  but  not  one  Titian.”  Nay,  was  not  the  Pope  of  Pome 
going  to  make  Raffaelle  a Cardinal,  — and  were  not  these 
golden  days  ? 

Let  us  sa}'  at  once  “ No.”  The  very  fuss  made  about  cer- 
tain painters  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  shows 
that  tlie  ])od}"  of  artists  had  no  rank  or  position  in  the  world. 
'Fhey  hung  upon  single  patrons  : and  eveiy  man  who  holds  his 
[)lace  ly  su(;h  a tenure,  must  feel  himself  an  inferior,  more  or 
less.  The  times  are  changing  now,  and  as  authors  are  no  longer 
compelled  to  send  their  works  abroad  under  the  guardianship 
of  a great  man  and  a slavish  dedication,  painters,  too,  are 
beginning  to  deal  directly  with  the  public.  AVho  are  the  great 
picture-buyers  now?  — the  engravers  and  their  employers,  the 
people,  — “ the  only  source  of  legitimate  power,”  as  the}"  say 
after  dinner.  A fig  then  for  Cardinals’  hats  ! w"ere  Mr.  O’Con- 
nell in  power  to-morrow,  let  ns  hope  he  would  not  give  one, 
not  even  a paltry  bisho[)ric  in  partihus^  to  the  best  painter  in 
the  Academy.  Wliat  need  have  they  of  honors  out  of  the  pro- 
fession? Why  are  they  to  be  be-knighted  like  a parcel  of  aider- 
men? — for  my  part,  I solemnly  declare,  that  I will  take  nothing 
under  a peerage,  after  the  exhibition  of  my  great  picture,  and 
don’t  see,  if  painters  must  have  titles  conferred  upon  them  for 
eminent  services,  why  the  Marquis  of  Mulready  or  the  Earl  of 
Landseer  should  not  sit  in  the  house  as  w-ell  as  any  law  or  sol- 
dier lord. 

The  truth  to  be  elicited  from  this  little  digressive  dissertation 
is  this  painful  one,  — that  young  Artists  are  not  generally  as 
well  instructed  as  they  should  be  ; and  let  the  Royal  Academy 
look  to  it,  and  give  some  sound  courses  of  lectures  to  their 
pupils  on  literature  and  history,  as  well  as  on  anatomy,  or  light 
and  shade. 


THE  EJiD. 


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